


lost in the lapse again

by justsleepwalkin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Apocalypse Michael won, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Control Issues, Dean as a Healer, Dean's undecided deathwish, Depression, Dragons, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode: s14e10 Nihilism, Established Michael/Adam Milligan, Everyone is tired, Explicit Language, Fate & Forgiveness & Family, Future Fic, Future Fic as in three centuries worth, Healing, Heaven, Hell, Hellhounds, Implied Sexual Content, Kitsune, Leviathans, Low-Powered Dean Winchester, Lucifer didn't ask to be in this position., M/M, Michael Possessing Adam Milligan, Mild Sexual Content, Monsters, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purgatory, Season 14 AU, Second Chances, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Slow recovery, Soul Magic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspension Of Disbelief, Time Travel, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Vampires, Werewolves, aftermaths of possession, mantles of power, monsters as mostly good guys, not a reset, putting the planet back together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 134
Words: 113,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28912572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsleepwalkin/pseuds/justsleepwalkin
Summary: “Dean... how did... how did this evenhappen?”Dean looks away. His fingers curl into fists. “I screwed up, okay? I—I used him to kill Lucifer but he kept control, released me once, and stole back control permanently.”“You killed Lucifer and now you're working with him.”Dean slaps his thighs and stands up quickly, pacing away from the couch. “It's not like I asked God to resurrecthim! I'm not even—we're not working together! The only thing he evenneedsme for, really, is to act as a God Battery!” He puts a hand to his head and sighs heavily. “I don't even know what he was hoping Michael would do. 'Up our forces' he said like... like he'd thoughttheywould work together. And keep Heaven from crashing down.”“Michael isn't going to let Heaven fall,” Adam says.“Why does he evencareabout it?” Dean asks. “There's no angels up there!”“My mother is up there,” Adam answers.“Oh,” Dean whispers, looking lost.Adam hangs his head. Michael has been quiet and he can't blame him. “What's the goal here, Dean?”--PART II, Chapter 36
Relationships: Adam Milligan & Dean Winchester, Amara & God | Chuck Shurley, Apocalypseverse Michael & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Original Character(s), God | Chuck Shurley & Jack Kline, God | Chuck Shurley & Lucifer, Jack Kline & Lucifer, Lucifer & Michael (Supernatural), Lucifer/Dean Winchester, Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 31
Kudos: 55





	1. PART I: 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~god wouldn't it be nice if it kept my tags in the order I put them in~~
> 
> -I started this fic on June 6th. It… escaped me. I’m floored. I never expected this to get over 80k? And now it’s??? This is the most I’ve ever written and certainly been pleased with how it came out????
> 
> -I wouldn’t make any sound diagnosis for these tags but I _think_ I tagged accordingly for everything that might be a concern. 
> 
> -I rewatched a lot of the series while I was writing this. Sometimes a bit too _late_ in some regards because I clearly thought some things happened differently than they actually did. I take a lot of liberties, sometimes out of ignorance because it’s 15 seasons and I have a bad memory and didn’t wiki as much as I should have, sometimes on purpose. I tried to work with what I could if I wrote something and then realized whoops, canon says I’m wrong, but hey. 
> 
> -By all means this planet probably shouldn’t be functioning even with all the various excuses that I make narratively. Suspension of disbelief. There’s a lot that I was like HOW DOES THIS EVEN?? and I just hurt my head and promptly Stopped Thinking About It. 
> 
> -I don’t live in Kansas City though at this point Google probably thinks I do. 
> 
> -I did a shit job with most of the other character descriptions throughout this story and I just want to acknowledge that now. 
> 
> -Anyway this is 7 parts, 200 chapters, ~172k words (hard to tell exact number because all my chapter notes are on the same doc). Fully done, fully edited. I will probably post each new part weekly because work's been busy and I need a day off to handle posting and I don't trust my ability to do any more than a single part as a draft. 
> 
> -I'M PUTTING THIS HERE SO IT DOESN'T GET LOST and is easier to find again: [Penthouse layout](https://inktrailing.tumblr.com/post/643438028729253888/dont-mind-me-just-posting-shit-so-i-can-link-it). It should be noted though that the two bedrooms are just disaster storage spaces for awhile. 
> 
> -[Lyrical Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2) | [Instrumental Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n)
> 
> Let's go???

### PART I

> All the beauty in your face  
>  When all the anger separates us  
>  Smile when you're not afraid to die  
>  But I'm afraid with each goodbye  
>  Lost the sun above my head  
>  Lost myself in things  
>  I said  
>  And war is all you ever seen  
>  Your war behind the screen  
>  And all it means to me
> 
> When you are numb  
>  I'm forgiven  
>  I'm forgiven  
>  When you've been gone  
>  Lost in the lapse again  
>  Lost in the lapse again  
>  [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFH2hooYKAs&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=1) Lapse by Black Math

**1**

Wednesday, April 22, 2319

Dean's forgotten what it's like to breathe. 

Sometimes, Michael let him out. 

When he killed Sam, when he killed Cas, when he killed Jack. There was sometimes the barest slip of awareness, just to _remind_ Dean that everything going on around them was still real, still happening, still _Dean's fault_. But Michael didn't need to push Dean back into a dream again to keep him compliant—he knew he had won, and so instead Dean was once more stifled. Drowning. 

Michael locked him up and skewered his mind and left Dean's soul to hang like he was back on the Rack in Hell— _'chained to a comet'_ Jimmy had said when he referred to being Cas's vessel.

Except this was a comet that didn't want Dean to be okay. The archangel just wanted to keep Dean's soul a flicker, nothing more.

Dean thinks even Lucifer treated his vessels better than this.

After years start to go by and nothing changes, Dean just... stops. Stops trying. Stops existing. There's barely any angels left to stop Michael—even _this_ world's Michael trying, and failing. 

Michael shapes the planet. A guiding hand clutching around hearts. Michael _eradicates_ people. He “cleanses” the planet of any that defy him and locks it up tight. 

And nothing ever progresses. A planet stuck in stasis.

One day, oh, centuries later, Dean prays. It's weak, insubstantial. He doesn't know what happened to Chuck or Amara. Thinks they're gone for real this time. 

But there's a tiny, microscopic answer. It should amount to nothing. Michael's wiped faith in anything but himself off the planet. Tabula rasa. Yet Michael screams and _howls_. A storm brewed and gaining momentum. Hurricanes and tornadoes and tsunamis and volcanoes and earthquakes. The Earth shouts in an angry revolt and Dean _breathes_ even as Michael mauls his soul and _shreds_ it apart and Dean hears _“I wish we could do more”_ and he's crying and he hears Michael snarl _“Lucifer”_ and _“no”_ and _“I refuse”_ and then Michael is gone and Dean is empty.

He sags down to the floor of Michael's penthouse, marble smooth and cool beneath his skin but it _burns_ and everything hurts, oversensitive and raw, and Dean gasps out a sob and tries to remember _how_ to breathe.


	2. 2

**2**

Wednesday, April 22, 2319

Earthbound and shackled isn't the way Lucifer wanted this to be. He'd thought. He'd thought. He'd thought...

Lucifer _wanted_ things to be different. Even centuries gone by he'd just wanted... 

And now look at this planet. Congratulations, humanity! You've got a real winner here! 

He suffocates and sways in his vessel and his Father must be _laughing_ that he's in this predicament, flailing and despising his “new life.” But why now, after all this time? Glad you caught up with your sister, Pops, but why'd you have to take so long, don't you know what you've missed, what you caused by your absence? 

Ah, maybe it's his bitterness that suffocates him. 

The Heavenly Host is barren, the dregs of Emergency Power holding everything together. Hell is just as bad, decrepit and rotting, a tangle of limbs and silent souls, all uncertain what to do with the way of the world. 

And Hell was always better at adapting, but his demons—his children—are gone. Nothing left, same as Heaven. 

It's only when he's taken flight around the planet several times over that the familiar taint of _Michael_ swarms him, dispersing into the air, ozone and the embodiment of purity, but so weighed down by power and Apocalypse and oh, _oh_ , it isn't _Lucifer's_ Michael, it's _that_ Michael. That Other. And Lucifer's memories are thrust back before he can help it and he's choking under the weight, seizing on a street corner without a single soul to pay him a lick of concern.

Well, he's used to that, no matter the era.

When it passes, he's left too tired to care. Michael's presence is _gone_. Absent. Slowly, he picks himself up off the ground, wavering, his mind hyper-focused on where he last felt the distant presence, like a magnet locking in, unable to resist. He needs to know what happened. Needs to know _how_ their trade-off happened, what kind of mess their Father was cooking up this time. 

His flight is a stumble, like taking a step and missing his footing. He's expecting a fight, expecting to find what had been strong enough to repel Michael from what has clearly been a _very_ long rule if the ill-feeling of the planet is anything to go by. 

He's not expecting to find some remnants of a Winchester on the other end—he should be _done_ with Winchesters this late in the game, but then, Lucifer hadn't guessed that Michael would have still carried around with his sword for so long. It's peculiar, though the sorry state of the Winchester is anything but. Michael's never treated his possessions kindly, which is hysterical that it was ever Lucifer to get disowned for his treatment of humankind.

He stares down at Dean, lips curled in disgust, and either Dean hasn't noticed his presence from where he's laid out on his side, or he simply doesn't care. 

“I find it fascinating that your soul is still intact,” Lucifer says slowly, cocking his head to the side. He narrows his eyes. Mostly intact, anyway. It's only... _freshly_ bleeding, like Michael had tried to destroy Dean after he'd been... banished? He'd come here for answers and yet he's only _more_ confused. 

He can tell the moment Dean's mind processes his voice, shifting and pushing up on arms to stare incredulously at Lucifer's grinning form. Dean's response is thrown by his sudden coughing fit, red speckling the floor. Lucifer licks his lips and looks away, folding his arms and waiting for it to pass.

“What?” Dean croaks, wiping a thumb over his lips, pushing away blood and spittle. “Are we required to have one archangel on this rock at all times as chaperone?” 

Lucifer holds up both his hands, making as though to snap. Dean braces himself, but the only thing that happens is a sickly _radiance_ jolting between Lucifer's wrists. “I'm a little knotted up,” he admits instead of acting as he had all the power and lording it over the Winchester, but looking at him... God. It's just _sad_. 

Though it's the first time Lucifer's gotten a real look at his bindings. They're more disconcerting than he originally thought. If his Father brought him back and bound him, why the sick look of them? His gaze shifts back to Dean when the Winchester retches as though he's reacting to the ill magic. He thinks what comes out is a dribble of grace, the residue that stuck and stained Dean's soul. 

Dean's elbows give out and he rolls onto his side and curls into himself and Lucifer isn't feeling the euphoria that would normally come with watching him tormented. 

“Now I'm real curious,” Dean rasps into the floor, “to see what your version of the cosmos would've been like.”

Lucifer tenses. So, Michael broke his vessel. 

“What?” it escapes him before he can stop it. Dean's been, presumably, sidled with Michael ever since he killed Lucifer. And sure, Lucifer _saw_ from a distance what Michael did to the planet, but that doesn't _mean_... He takes a step back. “What happened to Michael?” he asks instead. “How is he gone?”

The response is a cackling, wheezing, out-of-tune sound, and Dean might be sobbing. “I prayed.”

“You... prayed.”

If anyone faithful still remains on this godforsaken rock, it's probably Dean Winchester. Voiceless and bound, to even manage a prayer is enough to shake the planet.

Lucifer considers his bindings again, holding them up and examining them. 

God and the Darkness are _weak_. Without any followers, they are singularly empowered by _Dean Winchester_ , and perhaps, now, Lucifer, if by simple familial bonds. They may have been able to bring Lucifer back, using the fuel of the Winchester's prayer, but the bindings may not have been their doing. The bindings may just be the Law of the new universe.

How is he supposed to break free from _that_?

“Well, that would explain it, then,” Lucifer answers, frowning at the hiccups of laughter falling out of the Winchester. 

Eugh.

He could just put a stop to it. However, if his Father is solely being fueled by Dean, Lucifer can't afford to break down that battery. He sighs loudly, exasperated, and walks over to crouch next to the man. Dean goes _rigid_ in reaction, but he has no energy to move away, and Lucifer touches two fingers to Dean's forehead, and hell, there really is excessive damage there, below the surface. 

But Lucifer seems to still be able to access his healing abilities. _Cheers_. 

“Contrary to what either of us may prefer,” he murmurs, “I need you alive. The Righteous Man,” he laughs, “the only faithful left.”

“I can't,” Dean's voice cracks after he scrambles away from Lucifer, staring at Lucifer like he _cursed_ him, not healed him, “I can't do anything for you. I don't know what you think you can get from me.”

“Oh,” Lucifer waves him off, standing and pacing away to give the Winchester even more space, “you've already done what I need, I suppose.” He glances over his shoulder. “I don't need anything _from_ you, I just need you to stay alive.”

He flexes his fingers, trying to understand the reach of his power. 

He turns and smiles slow, languid. “ _Though_ if I can get rid of these cuffs, perhaps we can go back in time and prevent all _this_ from happening.” To reset to a time where he'd have _resources_. Not this... ground-up, endless, _pointless_ task. He's built a domain by hand once before; he shouldn't have to go about it a second time. 

There's the barest flare of hope in Dean's eyes before it instantly fades, replaced by anger. “Even if you had full reign of your power, it wouldn't be enough. Even _you_ can't time travel centuries and then also— _what_? Kill Michael before he takes control of me? Because you could kill me while he's got possession, but that didn't work so well the first time, and you had Jack's power.”

Lucifer sneers at the very mention. “What ever happened to _dearest_ Jack, anyway?”

“What do you think?” Dean snaps. “Michael tortured him before eventually killing him, same as everyone else I ever loved.” 

Lucifer unexpectedly flinches at the words. Ah, him and Jack. They could have _been_ something. Something great, and powerful. Father and son, the way him and God were supposed to be.

Shame.

Lucifer's lips curl back in a snarl. “Humanity has faith in Michael. You have Michael's face. If you turn humanity back towards God, my Father will have strength again.” Before he can do anything, make any lasting plans—and backup plans—he needs to be able to loosen his bindings. 

“Sure. I'll just write a bunch of fucking hymns and rewire the whole planet. I've got, what, a few _months_ left of livability, in this useless body? Sure. _Sure_. It'll all work out, _won't it_?”

Lucifer tries to call his power to him, arm outstretched in muscle memory and his fingers twitching like talons. The chains shimmer and glow and crackle. Lucifer scowls and this is going to be a challenge to grow accustomed to. He storms over instead to Dean, reaching down and hauling him up by the fancy suit collar. 

“Stop it,” he commands. “You weren't given a second chance just to waste it in self-loathing.”

“Oh, I'm _sorry_ ,” Dean spits. He fights against Lucifer's hold, looking as though he's struggling to breathe. “Is my existential crisis _too difficult for you_?!”

Lucifer hisses, “What a reversal. _I'm_ trying to save this filthy planet, and Dean Winchester has _given up _.”__

__“Gave up a long time ago, Lucifer,” Dean says. As a show, he stops fighting, his body limp. Dean grins, all teeth. “And there's nothing worth saving. Not anymore.”_ _

__Lucifer drops him. The chains flicker and vanish, invisible once more. Lucifer watches as Dean laughs madly into the floor, a hiccup, a cry. He watches, and then he leaves with the rustle of feathers. Irritated. _Disgusted_._ _


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=603cHaieDcY&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=3) fine by Mike Shinoda

**3**

Wednesday, April 22, 2319

“Good, just leave,” Dean whispers into the floor. Dean feels better than he has in centuries and yet he's still frozen in place where Lucifer dropped him. 

The Righteous Man.

When's the last time Dean heard that title? 

He swallows down on something that, probably, is his existence. 

Lucifer had said his soul was in tact. That has to mean something, right? Maybe he could recover from this.

If he should even be allowed. 

He doesn't even know what to _think_ about Lucifer. He thinks he remembers Michael's mantras of denial, and those included his brother. The Earth had roiled but now, with Michael, it was gone. Had it accepted Lucifer, after all this time? Had it changed its definition of “devil” and prayed—like Dean—for salvation?

_'I wish we could do more.'_

Dean doesn't think Lucifer was their answer, but he doesn't know what _else_ to think. 

(He wonders if he could have—if he _should have_ —egged Lucifer on to kill him.)

He doesn't move for a long, long time. 

There's a disconnect from the person that gets off the floor. He thinks the sun has set and risen several times by now. There's a tremble to his limbs. A wipe of his knuckles across his mouth shaves off crusted blood. He stares at his hand. He thinks Lucifer was a dream, and isn't that fucked up?

He turns, stares around the penthouse and his memory trips over itself, overlaying so many times that he's been in this room as Michael. He nearly collapses. His stomach churns but he thinks there's still that barest trace of grace left—because _why_ can't he just scrub it completely from his body— that's keeping him conscious and coherent. Didn't Sammy say something, once, forever ago, about Gadreel leaving behind grace? 

He looks down at himself and shudders at every scrap of clothing that _screams_ Michael. He hucks the jacket off of him, throwing it across the room, and fingers shed the vest and tie in a desperate desire to push _back_ at the image Michael crafted him into. There's going to be nothing in this place that he can change into. He has to... He can't stay like this.

He doesn't know where to go or what to do about money but he has to figure something out and he leaves Hitomi Plaza in a fugue state, streets and people blurring past him, and maybe it hasn't been as long as it felt—the city seems familiar, traffic and lights and sound. 

He wanders miles before he finds a store that might remotely have what he wants, and when he walks in he swears all eyes are on him. He brushes off a clerk that asks what he needs, missing the panic as he goes to racks. Dean picks out the essentials as his mind hums with a certainty that money isn't an issue, everything is going to be fine, and even when he goes to the register they only bag his purchase and wave him off and he doesn't think anything of it—it's his _rite_.

As Dean's trying to retrace his steps, a hand grabs his arm, whirling him around. The _nerve_ his mind shouts and he's moving without realizing, hand slapping to wrist and digging nails in, turning to face the encrusted skin, and wild white-blue eyes of an arachne. 

“ _You_ —what's your game, Commandant? Why wake us up after all this time?” they demand.

Dean tilts his head, unseeing. Commandant. It was the title his— _Michael's_ —army called him.

But that's—

_'You have Michael's face—'_

No. No, Lucifer wasn't _real_ , but then even if he was a fever dream brought on by Dean surfacing, that fever dream has a _point_. 

It explains the people in the streets.

It explains the shop clerks.

It explains all the white noise around Dean as he walked through the city, eyes ducked, whispers silenced—there's monsters in the streets he realizes with alarm but Dean is the one that everyone shies away from.

“Bold of you to attack me,” he drawls, and that detached feeling hasn't left him. Instead of chasing it away he embraces it, pivoting his stance and knocking the weight of his body into the arachne to throw them off balance. He tries to unsheathe an angel blade that he _doesn't have_ —only Michael would—and sidesteps last second, drawing the arm in and clocking an elbow into their head, stunning them.

He backs up. They won't be down long. 

Dean turns, for the first time taking in the people around him, their eyes in constant fear. 

He can't be out here. He moves faster to get _back_ —doesn't know where else to go—pushing in a mad rush. Someone comes near him and his mind reads _attacker_ , swinging clothing bags out of the way as he steps in. He avoids teeth and claws that aren't there and locks arms around a neck to snap it before any of the situation catches up with him and—and he looks for signs of a monster but there are none.

The silence of the world around him dissipates and all that remains is the over-stimulation of sounds banging through his skull. 

He grabs for the pocket knife he bought from the bag when a few people risk coming close to grab for the body and he's backing away, knife out, “ _Get back_!” he roars and he thinks that's Michael's voice more than his own and he _doesn't know who he is_. “Get back,” he says quieter.

A hesitant hand touches his shoulder and his mind erases the concerned voice that calls out to him and the knife is in their side and he doesn't remember moving, but he _won't_ forget the look of agony on the woman's face. _She shouldn't have presumed to_ touch _him_ —no. No. No. 

He lets go. 

Michael does this. Michael kills indiscriminately. Dean's _not him_. They're not the same no matter how much Michael crooned into Dean's soul. They're not. _They're not_.

Dean runs. He leaves behind the destruction that he caused in his wake and he clings back to that disconnected sensation that let him silence his surroundings because then he wasn't reacting on a hair-trigger. Hitomi Plaza _isn't_ a safe haven but it's the only place he _knows_ and he barely makes it to the top-floor penthouse, Michael long since converting the offices. He drops the bags somewhere in the entryway and staggers to the kitchen area, trying to wash the blood from his hands, the woman's haunted gaze flashing through his mind and— _'you have Michael's face'_ —he never should have _gone out_! What did he _think_ was going to happen?

He didn't think, obviously.

He scrubs for hours and he doesn't think it's ever going to come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a bad time.


	4. 4

**4**

Wednesday, May 6, 2319

Lucifer takes a closer look at humanity. Blends in, gets into the grit of it all. Closer, closer. And—it staggers him, the very _lack_ of human stench he finds. It's there, sure, but humans have become a minority, and the majority? Monsters, walking around in skin-suits, in control. 

Not in the way that Lucifer would presume, though. There's no superiority rule over humankind. Even as he starts to observe more closely, there's a sense of protectiveness from monster to human. A kinship.

He goes country to country and it's _weeks_ of trying to understand, searching out the tiny traces of _Michael's_ tide receding. 

The monsters aren't just protective. They're wounded. Michael _did_ something to them and then Michael was gone and like the Winchester they've all _woken up_ and sunk back on their haunches, _aware_ and free.

Michael reshaped the world and used all of them to do it and now they're going to take the pieces they have left and try to hold them together. 

The supernatural world.

Lucifer would have never guessed.


	5. 5

**5**

Tuesday, May 12, 2319

Dean stares at the trickle of grace dissolving in his palm. It bled through the skin of his arm and rolled down his wrist and collected into his hand. He's still doubting it's the last of it when all the aches and pains of the abuse he's put his body through make themselves known, a parade through Dean's mind in the form of a month-awaited migraine. 

He watches as it vanishes and thinks he hasn't really woken up until that moment, laying out on one of the two couches, catatonic for the past... month? Nearly? Body sustained by that little sliver of grace.

His gaze trails to the entryway, where his bags of clothing still sit. He hadn't even changed before his mind took a vacation.

Slowly, he gets up. 

It isn't that Dean doesn't try from there. It's that going outside is a plague. It takes time. He gets out further each attempt before retreating into Michael's penthouse. People cower away from him and he hates it, but he doesn't lash out like he did that first time. 

He tries. He tries. He tries. He can't speak. Words fumbled. 

He tries. He gets several blocks from Hitomi Plaza and he pays for food with not much thought of the bills in his hand or why Michael had cash available, and the cashier thinks he's going to smite them because Michael pays for nothing and it's weeks and Dean barely makes it another few blocks. He almost can walk like he remembers how and then he's ganked and dragged into an alleyway and there's an ancient fucking dragon shaped like a brickhouse pressing him into the wall, arm strangling his windpipe and laughing like a sonuvabitch.

“I didn't believe it when others in the Circle started to chatter,” the dragon hisses, teeth too sharp for a human guise, scales boiling over flesh.

Dean was trying. Dean was trying to _exist_. To _be_. His mind more open, a breath of fresh air settling his nerves. 

Didn't he learn a long, _long_ time ago, to give up hope? When Michael finally won and retook his vessel? Dean's hope, crushed. He learned. _He learned_.

“They thought the _Commandant_ was absent. All out of our heads, but maybe playing with a new game plan. But here you are—he wouldn't let his suit get dirty like this.” The dragon laughs, smoke curling from his nostrils. “He's gone. And me? I'll make it so he _never_ gets his vessel back ever again.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Lucifer lulls, suddenly leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed and looking as carefree as he could be. 

Dean doesn't think he's real until the dragon looks distractedly at him and Dean has to accept too quickly that he really was in the penthouse when Dean woke up that first time.

“While all your so-called 'Circles' woke up and know Michael is gone,” Lucifer continues, “the rest of the populace isn't going to turn so easily. You need a face. You need him. And without a way to broadcast it you can't just kill him publicly. So even an ancient being like yourself isn't that dumb.” Lucifer shrugs a shoulder. “Be smart and run along. I'd genuinely _hate_ to have to kill a dragon.”

Dean breathes shallow breaths and tries not to believe Lucifer is actually trying to save his life, a second time, but the arm at his neck loses its tight press as the dragon turns to stare at Lucifer, utterly puzzled. 

“Yeah? And what do you think _you are_ , claiming to be able to kill me?”

Lucifer grins cheekily. His eyes glow an unmistakable red. “The Archangel Lucifer.”

Even without the telltale sign of the eyes, the swell in the air is enough. Even Dean can feel it, though he wonders how much of it was for show, or if Lucifer had loosened his bindings since Dean had seen him last.

“And we're really supposed to believe _you_ want to—what is it?”

“I like to ruin all my big brother's plans,” Lucifer says. His show of power fades, and the air is left robbed. “You could say it's my favorite pastime. And now that God has resurrected me, I think it's time I get to work, don't you?”

“God,” the dragon says the name like he's testing it out, remembering. “ _God_ resurrected you.”

“Am I stuttering? Dean, you understand me, right?” he throws his voice. Lucifer pushes away from the wall and looks pleased to see the dragon tense. Few creatures on this planet still understand him and what he represents, Dean thinks. “I know the Circles are protecting the humans. Hell still hasn't noticed the shift—and I can keep it that way.”

“In exchange for what?”

“God needs followers. I know, I know, this is real funny coming from _me_. But all of you? You got to wake up, him,” Dean, “included. Now the planet needs to wake up. For that, you need God. My Father... as unwilling as he is to acknowledge... needs help.” Lucifer spreads his hands. “Understand?”

When the dragon's long gone, Lucifer just stares at Dean as he fights to catch his breath and refuse to look at him.

“I've been trying to find a dragon for _weeks_ and one just walks up to you. Lucky me. Though, I suppose, the only one brave enough—with the ability to back it up—to see if Michael is MIA _is_ a dragon.”

Dean, struggling with a lot to say at once, settles on, “You been spying on me?” 

“Yes. Obviously. How else will I know you don't kick the bucket?” Lucifer gestures to the alleyway around them. “Case-in-point. But a dragon. _Well_. That really worked out.”

Dean grunts. He rubs a hand at his throat. “Lucky you,” he echoes. Lucifer's easier to talk to, he thinks. Lucifer didn't know him as Michael, he only knew Dean Winchester. “What are those Circles you were talking to him about?”

“Communities of monsters gathered together,” Lucifer grins, “for a purpose you won't believe. I'm still looking to see if there's a punchline to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“They _joined hands_ ,” he sings, “to protect humanity.”

Dean's expression is blank. “Sorry—what?”

“I know. It's the greatest cosmic joke. _Monsters_. Safeguarding _humans_.” Lucifer indicates to the world at large. “And it's—unanimous. I've looked around the nooks and crannies of this dump. They're just... _eugh_. I think Michael broke them.”

They're not the only ones Michael broke, Dean thinks darkly. “That's great. Next they'll all start wearing flower crowns.” He sighs loudly. “I'm going home. This was a fantastic excursion.”

“Look both ways when you cross the street!” Lucifer mocks at his retreating figure.

“Bite me!” Dean yells back to him. His mind needs to come to terms with the fact that Chuck really did trade in Michael for Lucifer, and it's a lot to take in.

He does look both ways. He doesn't need another surprise attack.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter where I couldn't edit out the split-PoV and forgot I even still had chapters like this until I had combed back through during early edits. Uggggh. 
> 
> (Okay, I prob _could_ have killed it but I was more unwilling to.)

**6**

Friday, May 29, 2319

“Hell- _o_ , you miserable pit of disease!” Lucifer chirps, wings spread and shielding against hellfire. “ _Daddy's_ home! I know, you've missed me so much, I came as soon as I was able, and I'm going to patch things up, don't you worry.”

Lucifer's grand _re_ -entrance to Hell is met with a less than stellar response. He's not surprised, not from when he stealthed in before. Michael made it so Hell was a receptacle for the damned and nothing more, likely keeping the demons fearful of his might and control over all monsters; it was _safer_ for them to stay below surface, until they too withered to nothing. 

What's left convulsed together in a singular mass. 

It did _not_ leave Lucifer a lot to work with. He'd have to put _time_ in extracting the souls. More time than he wants. But if he doesn't start creating resources for himself, he'll have nothing to fall back on if his little time travel plan fails. He needs to keep his options open, after all. 

He also needs a pick-me-up first before he gets his hands dirty. Mockery waiting on bated breath as he takes a jaunt down to his _ollld_ Cage. 

It's empty. 

It _shouldn't_ be empty. 

He's spinning out of Hell in a _rage_ and slamming into the penthouse where Dean's holed up eating dinner, palms slapping to the tabletop and stunning the Winchester. “What _happened_ to _Michael_?” he snarls.

Dean, hyperventilating, stares dazed at Lucifer. “You _know_ what happened, man! What the hell? You're going to give me a heart attack over _that_?”

“Not that Michael, _MY_ Michael!” Lucifer roars. “What happened to my brother if he's _not_ in the Cage?” 

Dean shakes. “Right. So.” He _really_ doesn't want to recall this. 

He skids his chair backwards to put some distance between him and Lucifer, gaze flickering to the devil's bindings openly glowing. “I guess the Cage got weak after awhile with no one tending to it.” He meets Lucifer's _very_ red eyes before jerking away. “Neither Michael really is one to get along with... another version of themselves, you know?” He swallows. 

Lucifer's fingers curl into his palms and wild energy sparks from the bindings, erratic like his mood. 

Dean's suddenly really glad for them because he thinks he'd be dead ten times over by now. 

“He was the only one that... really gave Apocalypse Michael a run for his money. But it. Well. Your brother had Adam. And... he had me.”

“My brother's dead,” Lucifer says in a hushed, dangerous voice. 

Dean knows, only through a fog. It wasn't a death Michael _needed_ Dean to see. It wasn't about Dean's suffering; it was about two Michaels' fury, an infinite loop feeding between them. It was about Adam, and the _attachment_ there. It was about defiance. Dean felt them getting the winning blow and then Apocalypse Michael expelled his other self. He bound him to the room as he tortured Adam, and Dean never thought Adam would have even still been _alive_ after all this time, and he could _feel_ Michael's helplessness even when he couldn't see what was going on, had it resonate and echo through him. 

Dean doesn't remember it finally happening—he just knew one day Adam and Michael were there, and then there was a crumpled body and a pool of blood and the black tattoo of ash forever burnt into marble.

Very, very slowly Dean gets out of his chair and moves around Lucifer, keeping his eyes on him at all times. He backs up into the living room, where there is a glorious ornamental rug stretched out over the sitting area. Dean holds up one hand as though to ward Lucifer, then bends down carefully and draws back what he can of a corner of the rug. 

Still etched in the marble are Michael's wings. 

Lightning streaks the night sky, an instant answer of deafening thunder making Dean recoil. 

Lucifer is _gone_ with the next flash, but it wasn't fast enough to hide the wetness of his eyes. 

Dean loses his balance. He looks out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Distant slivers of lightning mar the skyline. He lists forward, head caught in his hands, swearing under his breath, his dinner forgotten.


	7. 7

**7**

Monday, June 1, 2319

Dean doesn't go outside. 

He did, once or twice, after his encounter with the dragon. Each time left him with a shortness of breath and his vision swimming and he'd think _it's Michael again, he's coming back_ and run and slam inside, staring at himself in a mirror like he could tell just from that. 

But Michael wouldn't toy with him in this way, he thinks. If Michael was back he'd damn well make himself known.

Right? 

So Dean doesn't go outside because while he hides away he feels almost a sense of safety, except now he doesn't know if he should regularly expect a pissed-off devil showing up out of the blue or not. But that's different. That's... something _other_. Almost outside of _this_ world. Lucifer is a relic from a past time and he hasn't yet slid into the workings of this era and Dean kind of, foolishly, hopes he never does. 

It's _easy_ talking to him, and Dean hates it. Hates the familiarity in his responses, the aggression, his desire to _needle_ Lucifer. 

But he thinks if he _loses_ that connection, there isn't anything keeping _Dean Winchester_ afloat in the ocean of memories. 

He sleeps on one of the two couches by the unlit gas fireplace, because why would Michael have a use for a bed, and Dean does nothing to remedy it; he has little willpower and no idea how he'd even get a bed up here.

It's not like he sleeps well, anyway. An actual bed isn't going to change that. Isn't going to take the nightmares, the terrors, the sheer lockdown of his body as he wakes up thinking he's lost control but it's still just him and _only_ him. 

He should move. Go anywhere but here, except in this city he's just as trapped as Lucifer is shackled. He doesn't have a way out, his mind repeating over partial memories of the Impala and its destruction and it isn't that it guts him more than the people he's lost but he needs to get _out_ and he can't and there's no one to ask for help. He could order someone, but just the thought leaves him locked in the bathroom, quaking. He's not Michael, won't be Michael, won't _act_ like he's Michael and damn everyone else, damn Lucifer, damn...

Damn himself, really. 

Dean hates this. 

He hates everything. 

Dead or alive, Michael should be happy; Dean's miserable. A vessel, used and discarded, and absolutely wrecked.


	8. 8

**8**

Friday, June 5, 2319

“Do you have a deathwish?” Lucifer demands, hands fisted into Dean's shirt, gaze angry, and Dean doesn't know how they got here, got like this, his attention stuck on the two burnt-out vampires, stab wounds from an angel blade in their torsos.

Lucifer shakes him.

“I— _no_ ,” Dean answers. He raises up his arms to break Lucifer's hold and takes in the parking lot. He was... it had been enough days of self-loathing and hiding and it got to him, eventually, that he went out again. Because Winchesters don't know when to give up; that's always been the case even though for three centuries he lay in the depths of his mind under the weight of Michael's grace and ignored the world around them. 

He stopped trying, then, and that keeps whispering mockingly at him, now.

Maybe if you had tried harder, Dean. Maybe if you kept fighting.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

His eyes stray back to the vampires. He shudders and he knows Lucifer is going to break him in half, bindings or otherwise, if he doesn't start talking. 

“ _Look_ ,” he growls, “they're still juiced up from Michael's grace cocktail. I'm out of practice, okay?” He puts distance between the two of them as he makes his excuses, even as he refuses to say the worst of them: he's terrified to fight, remembering a snapped neck and haunted eyes. 

“You need to be more careful,” Lucifer warns lowly.

Dean spins. “I didn't ask you to keep saving my ass!” 

“And I told you I need you _alive_ , which is looking like it will be difficult.”

“It's not my fault. I thought those 'Circles' or whatever were gonna call off the hunt!”

Maybe he was banking on it too hard. That his own mess would be sorted without his influence. That he could just disappear and the city, the world, would forget Michael. He knows there must have been resistance groups, humans gathering and planning how to fight back. He'd have been with them if he wasn't encasing the archangel that squashed them under his heel. Any other circumstance, he'd have been with them. Surely, surely they _realize_ that now is the time to rise up?

“It takes time for word to spread and I would _imagine_ not everyone is in agreement about the status of your continued life.”

“And yet they can unanimously agree to protect humanity,” Dean spits, a tremor running through him, leaving numbness behind. Maybe by choice. If he keeps shutting down pieces of his soul while he goes out in public, maybe he can do this. Maybe he can remember what _confidence_ ever meant to him.

“ _You're_ not humanity.”

Dean hasn't been able to look at Lucifer again until then. 

Lucifer's expression twists. “I'm sorry, did I _offend_ you? You think you get to still be _normal_ after being Michael's puppet for centuries?”

“Fuck you,” Dean growls, a whipcrack of a response, because Lucifer isn't _wrong_. Dean _wishes_ he was, but he understands. Dean _doesn't_ get to be normal. Just ask every single person, monster, or otherwise that lives in Kansas City, that had direct contact with Michael, their Lord and Oppressor. 

“Evidently the word going around is that Michael made sure all his monsters _knew_ that the only reason for this world is because 'Dean Winchester made a mistake.' I think he wanted to be convinced that even if by the unlikely event of him losing control that there would be no going back for you; you'd be Public Enemy #1.” Lucifer smiles. There's nothing nice about it. “Try to not to get into trouble, Winchester.”

Dean's left alone with the bodies. He's still watching the empty spot Lucifer vacated. 

_'Michael made sure.'_

Dean spews a laugh, sinking down to the asphalt. “Thanks, Michael,” he rasps.


	9. 9

**9**

Saturday, June 6, 2319

It's in the high 80s when Dean zips himself up in a hoodie and tightens the hood around his face and not only does he look like a freak, but he's actively going to kill himself from heat exhaustion, sorry-not-sorry, Lucifer. 

But he needs food. He's gone through the fancy crap Michael kept around for his own warped pleasure, as though any of it tasted better than thousands of atoms and he wasn't just keeping up the appearances of a Lord. 

He picks up a pair of sunglasses to complete the terrible ensemble and skirts down to a nearby convenience store spitting distance from Hitomi. 

He thinks people can still see through his disguise, or maybe it's the clinging heat getting to him. He wonders if he can just setup a weekly grocery delivery, but knows the moment he gives anyone his address, knows even the moment he opens his mouth, the jig will be up. 

So he figures out how to withdraw cash, getting strange looks between his already-terrible disguise and his cursing at trying to work the damn machine, and even more concern as he ogles the bills in his hands, paging through them. He hadn't studied them before. 

Really, it's almost a surprise Michael didn't print his face on them. 

Still, the Elysian background that replaces the portraits is disconcerting, and he stuffs the bills in the pockets of his hoodie.

He picks up anything he can that doesn't require cooking, and oozes too much over the fact that people still produce _beer_ , even if he doesn't recognize any of the labels. 

He gets back unscathed, and he thinks, maybe, this disguise could work. Missouri/Kansas heat on average hadn't been horrid.

(Three-hundred years of weather patterns mock laughingly at his back. Well. It seemed too easy, anyway, didn't it?)


	10. 10

**10**

Sunday, June 7, 2319

“So, this is where you've taken to hiding. I'd have thought you'd gone somewhere... not connected to the Commandant.”

Dean freezes. He looks up slowly from the journal he'd been reading—a human's account of living under an age of monsters. Dean had found a bookstore, which was a peculiar enough concept to him that of everything Michael allowed in the world there was this—and _only_ , Dean thinks—form of expression. He was looking for any autobiographies, though he knew from what little he combed his mind that it depended on the weather if Michael let those breathe, or if he had them, and the author, erased. 

As it was, the clerk couldn't decide on whether or not he was going to kill her if she _didn't_ give him something or if she _did_. Like it was a test of her integrity. He smiled when she gave him a few books and when he left he saw her collapse out of the corner of his eye. 

“By staying here I don't give anyone heart attacks,” Dean says to the dragon that tried to kill him. 

The dragon shrugs, walking in as though Dean invited him.

He thought he'd locked that door. 

“What do you want?” 

“Heard you got into some vamp trouble recently.”

“Friends of yours?”

“We're all business partners right now. Not necessarily friends, and not necessarily in agreement.”

“Yeah? And how long's that gonna work out? How long til this strange peace wears off and monsters start doing their own thing?”

The dragon paces over by the fireplace, and more cat than dragon, reaches up to toy a finger at a candle holder on the mantle and tips it over so it clatters to the floor. He looks back at Dean, who's now pissed _and_ high-strung.

“It's why I'm here,” the dragon says calmly. 

“What,” Dean snaps, “to break that peace?”

“No. I do still find the devil's plan fascinating. I'd like to invite you to a Circle meeting.”

Dean frowns. “I'm not so sure...”

“Do you need permission from your chaperone?” 

“He's not my—!” Dean cuts himself off. “How do I know someone there isn't going to just treat me like a walking buffet?”

“Is the infamous Hunter scared of a few monsters?”

Dean grits his teeth. Yes. Yes he is. “I don't want to interrupt any politics by slicing apart some dignitaries,” he says instead.

The dragon grins, and there's that curl of smoke Dean remembers being in his face. 

“I will be there,” he says, “which means no one will dare.”

Dean grumbles. “Any other dragons I have to worry about? I thought you guys were extinct—for real this time.”

“I have one other in this city. Kuehner. She won't kill you either.”

“Speaking of names, I never got yours when you tried to suffocate me.”

The dragon smiles. “Ligthart.” He steps away from the fireplace, inspecting the various other pieces of artwork and sculptures Michael had no doubt collected at one point and Dean just hasn't been bothered to redecorate. “We have more numbers than we did before Michael. He pulled a select few from Purgatory.”

“What? He could do that?” 

“He destroyed other worlds, boxed up Death, boxed up Heaven and Hell—after all that, having a backdoor to Purgatory was nothing,” Ligthart explains. 

_'Backdoor'_ cycles through Dean's mind, a quiet whispered reminder and he has to crush down the panic before it erupts because he has to _do_ something about that—he shakes his head, trying to process too much thrown at him at once. They knew Michael _wanted_ to burn all of God's worlds, but Dean doesn't _remember_ any of them, or how they would have traveled. And enslaving Death... _that_ was familiar, but in a lesser sense, before Michael had thrown Dean into complacency after he'd been repossessed. 

“Michael said on his world he'd locked up Death and enslaved the Reapers...”

“Why mess with what works? Think the bastard sent the Reapers through his tear into Purgatory to get those he wanted.”

Dean drops his head atop the journal. Ligthart hasn't made any other moves to try to kill him so he thinks he's allowed a moment of weakness. Not that Dean could do anything against him even if he was on his full guard. 

“If Michael could get into Purgatory, does that mean there's Leviathans here too?”

“As far as I know: no. And I imagine we'd very quickly be made aware after Michael's control broke. They... would not be the kind to get along with the peace the rest of us are trying to keep.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles into the journal, “I guess not.” He still doesn't think anyone _else_ would get along with the peace, but Leviathans are definitely a big _not happening_. “When's your dumb meeting?”

“Tomorrow night. Howl at the Moon.”

“... Seriously?”

Ligthart grins. “1334 Grand Blvd. Seven o'clock.”

“There gonna be werewolves?”

“Why, Dean, there will be all manner of monster there.”

“Am I allowed to be armed?”

“I thought you didn't want to harm any 'dignitaries,' hm? But whatever makes you feel better.”

Dean thinks “whatever makes him feel better” is arming himself to the teeth for every “manner of monster,” but he doesn't exactly have an arsenal of weaponry anymore and arming up requires him going out in public. Shit. Michael may've had a collection of ornate weapons that he could snag _something_ of use from, but it's not like he has access to a blade anymore, archangel or otherwise. No Michael, no grace, no blade. 

Apparently.

Maybe he should bring Lucifer.

 _No_. Screw that. As he told Ligthart: Lucifer isn't his chaperone. He's fine. He can handle himself.

“Guess I'll see you there, then,” Dean says. 

Ligthart bows and takes his leave. 

Dean doesn't do a lot before the meeting. He, for the first time since waking up, takes a walk through the building, following a quiet pulse of his memory—the parts he fights to keep out—to find some of the hidden rooms, some of the few stashes of Michael's. There wasn't a lot he needed as an archangel, and he hardly was giving the monsters a place to call headquarters after he brainwashed them all. Spread carnage, infect, control. 

There is some traces of spellwork though, to Dean's surprise. Skimming his hand over components and parchment makes him jerk out of the storage space, heart racing, his mind supplying _prophets_.

Michael kept finding prophets and continued to kill them every time a new one popped up. Dean doesn't even know _why_. What the point was. Who were they going to listen to? Angel Radio was dead silent; Michael was the only one alive, and he doubts Chuck had a voice.

“Paranoid bastard,” Dean grumbles, continuing his tour down memory lane. Finds what must have at one point been a staff room for the building's laundry and kicks at a machine, wondering if he can get the machines operational again. Enough, anyway. 

He _does_ eventually find what he's looking for: a hallway devoted to weaponry displayed on both sides of the walls. 

There's an angel blade. He grabs for it as he remembers Michael killing Sister Jo with her own blade. 

It's... enough. It's the best safety blanket he can give himself. 

Dean's arrival to the meeting strikes no joy in anyone. He should have come earlier and squirreled away in a corner, not... well he's not _late_ but there's more people— _monsters_ —here than he's comfortable with, and it still feels like a trap. 

He tries not to let it show that he's _afraid_ and it probably only works because he spots Ligthart at the bar and what does it _say_ about him that he feels comforted by a dragon that, what, gave him his word? Because when has anyone's word or deal ever _mattered_?

It sure as hell didn't matter to _Michael_.

He jolts to the side as an older woman is suddenly inches from him; he didn't sense her at all in his periphery, and he wasn't lying to Lucifer when he said he was out of practice but _this is bad_. 

She smells like burning bones and he tries not to hyperventilate. She grins at him, head moving like a snake, loose strands from her braided-brown hair jostling side to side. He expects the rows of teeth when she smiles, pleased, before she takes her interest from him to acknowledge the gathering. “The vessel is under the protection of dragons,” she commands, “touch him and you will be our next meal.”

Dragon. Kuehner, he's reminded. 

Breaking glass draws Dean's gaze, someone standing angrily from their seat. “It's a mistake to bring that _thing_ into this meeting!” they roar. “There never should have been a debate in the first place. Kill the vessel, the Commandant can't come back!” 

Another table over and a bored, ratty woman replies, “He can still take another vessel, he'll just likely burn through a handful before he gets all comfortable.”

“The pup is just the best choice,” another answers, “but he won't _let_ Michael back in, _will_ he?” Yellow eyes look sharply at Dean, ready to drown him in their irises.

“No,” Dean answers.

“See,” they continue, “no problem.”

Another shout, tables away. “That's bullshit and you know it! The angels always have had their games!”

Dean thinks he could agree with that more than anything. 

“You're making quite an impression just by _walking in_ ,” Kuehner purrs. She presses a hand to Dean's back and he feels the prick of claws and he tenses. “Come along, Hunter. The meeting should start.”

“You mean my trial,” Dean answers before he can help it.

She smiles. “There are a lot of opinions that need to be voiced.”

“Are they going to end with the decision of my life?”

She eyes him carefully. “No,” she answers after a long moment. 

“ _Why_?” he snaps, fists at his sides. “Shouldn't they? It's what everyone wants, isn't it? A decision about my _blood_?”

Her eyes narrow. “It's what _you_ want, isn't it,” she says in a lilt, “for you actions to be judged?”

He flinches. 

“That's not what this meeting is for,” she continues. “You're here as the rest of us—awoken after centuries to decide how to sort through the world left behind.” She pushes him in with her claw and he stumbles. “But the air needs to be cleared, first.”

There's thirty pairs of eyes on him, if not more, all like he's their dinner, their sacrifice, and he's only armed with an angel blade and a disconnect from how to hunt. 

“How far does 'protection of dragons' go?” he asks under his breath. 

“We're the apex,” she tells him. “The only one to threaten us on this _planet_ is that archangel and his smell of sulfur, and _he_ is the one that vouched for you.”

It shouldn't be Lucifer's word standing between Dean and death. 

He lets Kuehner lead him in and desperately he wants a drink because, really, what does disrupting his control matter when he _knows_ he's a dead man to every supernatural creature in this room. He can't win a fight, he knows that, so he might as well get sloshed. 

He stays sober.

Kuehner pushes him towards a bar stool by Ligthart and continues walking, meeting with a cluster off to the side. 

“She's fun,” Dean quips thickly, watching her back.

“She's a monsoon waiting to happen,” Ligthart answers. “Stay there,” he orders, “don't speak unless spoken to.”

“I'm not your pet,” Dean snaps.

“I'm trying to keep you alive,” Ligthart says, leaning towards Dean before pulling away and climbing atop the wooden bar, gesturing to his vicinity, voice booming, “There's a few faces we're missing, but I think it's time to get this meeting in order. I know you all are aware of our _guest_ and as Kuehner made clear and as I spoke at our last meeting: he is both under our protection as well as the Archangel Lucifer's. I know there is the need for debate and we will allow that, but there is logistics to sort through before _any_ talk, so please, may we get through that first.”

Dean knows that his being here is causing waves, even if by the sounds of it, he was “discussed” previously. Still, he thinks if he doesn't move and doesn't speak, most forget he's even there and go about their business. A few more figures trickle in, going to different places of the room with purpose, like they've done this enough times. There's still eyes on him, he thinks, but he can't find who they are, gone as soon as he tries to search for them. Kuehner's taken to a side wall, arms crossed, gaze intent, someone standing on either side of her, just as attentive. 

He listens as one person stands from a table, going over reports of their portion of the city, the general consensus of the human population, any patrols they might have out. Then it goes onto the next, and so on. Eventually someone from Kuehner's trio breaks away from the wall to talk, and then all eyes are on Ligthart. 

He looks down at Dean and suddenly all the eyes that Dean had lost are completely on him. 

He almost opens his mouth but much to his anger, the _'don't speak unless spoken to'_ rattles through his mind and he _listens_.

“We don't know what's happened to the Commandant other than he's gone,” Ligthart says. He nods to Dean. “He's proof enough. Word is slowly trickling in from the rest of the Circles around the world on their thoughts, but _no one_ has seen signs of Michael taking on a new host.”

That... reassures Dean in a way that he didn't expect. He doesn't know why Michael _would_ take on another host, unless he was done with what he has built and was seeking a new plan. But just because he was expelled by God _shouldn't_ mean he couldn't just retake Dean through that cracked door all over again unless he was _really gone_. 

But if the Circles were keeping track... that was more eyes than he could hope for. Even Lucifer can't be aware of everything, if Lucifer was even watching for resurgent signs of Michael. 

“Ligthart.” One of the representatives of the Eastern part of the city, if Dean remembers right, stands up. “Do you really think it's worth the risk?”

Dean wishes he could easily see Ligthart from where he sits below him. That if Ligthart decides _no_ , it's not, the debate ends. There may be monsters in the city—like the vampires that Lucifer killed—that decide to take things into their own hands, but it's still against the dragons.

He thinks he wishes, just a bit, that Michael completely tore Dean apart when he was expelled. Then he wouldn't be dealing with any of this. When he was constantly hunted in Purgatory he felt like he had a _chance_. He was a sharpened tool at his prime. 

He couldn't even kill a pair of vampires. 

“I think,” Ligthart says, “we have an opportunity _with_ him that we wouldn't have _without_.”

Dean lets himself breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Howl at the Moon](https://www.howlatthemoon.com/kansas-city/)


	11. 11

**11**

Monday, June 8, 2319

“Heard you went to the Circle meeting.”

“You're not my fucking keeper, man,” Dean snaps, angry that Lucifer's lounging on his— _Michael's_ —couch, what? _Waiting up_ for him? He goes to the fridge and grabs a beer out. God. He's gotta get more food. If the devil's so harsh about judging him and his inability to live, maybe he should goddamn go to the grocery store so Dean doesn't have to deal with people being _scared_ of him. “What, not only you gotta stalk me, but you also have to wiretap the people around me?”

Lucifer shrugs. “I have my ear to the planet, Kansas City especially. How'd it go? You didn't die, I see.”

Dean takes a deep swig from the beer and clatters it loudly to the island counter when he sets it down. “I imagine I would've seen your ugly mug if I got shanked, so no, I didn't die. It was fine. Very illuminating. Gotta watch in real-time just how divided the monster populace is about the subject of _Me_.” 

Lucifer makes no sign of Dean's aggression phasing him. He folds his hands over his chest, eyes closed. “Did they have any new chatter about God?”

“No-pe. I filled up all their minutes.”

“Don't you feel special.”

“I don't wanna feel special, I wanna feel _alive_.”

Lucifer cracks an eye open and peers at Dean. “ _Do_ you now?”

Dean swears. “Shut up. It's not that weird.”

“To you, maybe.” He settles back in. “Are you going to return?”

“I don't know, maybe? What's it to you?”

“It simply means that I don't have to split my efforts. _This_ city is most damaged by Michael's active presence. He traveled, yes, but those places have scars. Kansas City is a bleeding-profusely wound, unable to heal. Nothing will change until that process begins, and you'll serve that purpose better than I.”

“Oh.” Dean doesn't know what else to say to that. He stares down at his bottle. “Sammy was better at the politics thing.”

Lucifer sighs. “I'm aware.”

Dean scoffs. “You checked that I 'got home safely.' Can you, I don't know, _leave_ now.”

Lucifer chuckles, but he does leave. He also doesn't deny it, which kind of pisses Dean off for reasons he can't explain.


	12. 12

**12**

Thursday, June 11, 2319

Lucifer splits his time very unequally. Hell is his top priority. He's starting to think Michael's purpose was less shoving the Gates (metaphorically) closed and more wrecking a place that is as close to a domain as Lucifer could've ever gotten since his Fall.

And Lucifer's the one that gets labeled as childish. 

He sorts souls like he's sorting files. Pride, Envy, Sloth, Gluttony, Lust, Wrath, Greed; Actually Worth Being a Demon Instead of Sludge, Why Aren't You Being Tortured Right Now, Did You Only Get Sent Here Because Heaven's More Desolate Than Fully Useful. 

Lucifer is _not_ fixing Heaven. He tried that once. It didn't go well, and angels weren't even _extinct_ like they were now. Hell has a backbone. Something for him to build off of, restructure. Heaven is just a waste of his already-divided time. 

And anyway, it functions. It's a big ol' sardine can of Light, but it functions. 

Barely.

Lucifer can ignore barely.

The rest of his time _is_ spent on a world tour as he'd mentioned to the Winchester. It's just more _limited_ than he let on. But what poor, soul-shredded, probably-has-a-deathwish Dean doesn't need to know is that Lucifer can't _afford_ to let God be fully empowered before Lucifer has reign over Hell, no matter how much it would help empower _Lucifer_. These things need to be done in their proper order, or there's no point to any of them. 

But the slithering sludge of souls in Hell doesn't look like he's made any progress. And his “filing cabinet” isn't producing demons the way he'd like. 

Didn't this used to be easier? He remembers it being easier. He doesn't _think_ it's a problem of them still having any humanity left. He thinks it's a problem that what _is_ left is a festering blemish created by Michael. 

So not _only_ did Michael ruin Hell for Lucifer, he ruined demon-creation too.


	13. 13

**13**

Sunday, June 14, 2319

 _'Deep down, I know you. I_ am _you.'_

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” Dean rasps, clutching at his head. It's gone. Michael is _gone_. He doesn't have to go _through_ this, he's stronger than—

_'You don't need them. You don't even like them.'_

He writhes in place, denials on his tongue. “No. _No_. You sonuvabitch you're the one that _killed_ them.” And what's he doing? Talking to a memory? Because that's healthy? He tries to control his thoughts. Slow. Breathe. It's not real. It's just the _stain_ left behind by the dribbles of Michael's grace.

_'You think I need my powers? I destroy worlds, and I'd crush you with my bare hands.'_

“No,” Dean says again with more force.

_'Well. That was fun. I think it's a good time to cleanse your head, don't you, Dean? It's too crowded in here.'_

“No!” Dean shouts, scrambling to his feet and crossing the room, grabbing his jacket and storming out. He just needs to clear his head. He can't stay cooped up in Michael's prime domain. It's just _stupid_ , Ligthart is right.

A man shies away abruptly out of Dean's space, “I'm—I'm very sorry, my Lord, I didn't see you there! Please, I—”

Dean whirls on the man, yelling, “I'm not _Michael_!” and he swears it echoes down the street, eyes all on him, scared, scared, scared, why is everyone _always_ —“Michael's _gone_ , you have to accept it, you have to move on! The only 'Almighty' out there is a God no one remembers because Michael sure as Hell wanted to wipe him off the face of the planet! I'm Dean Winchester!” 

He breathes, heavy, and fuck _'you're no different than him'_ Dark Kaia had said, and really, he was always _meant_ to be Michael's vessel, why is anyone surprised? “I'm Dean Winchester,” he says raggedly. 

The man just backs away and bolts into the crowd, the rest frozen in shock.

A hand grabs Dean's shoulder and he spins, expecting Lucifer, but there's a young woman much shorter than him, pixie-cut black hair, grinning with all-too-familiar teeth—vampire, _dammit_. 

“Sorry folks, don't mind the spectacle, the boss here is just testing the waters, move about your business,” she sings, nails in Dean's shoulder to keep him from speaking. 

The crowds recede, listening to the order and trying not to look towards Dean and the vampire. 

She slides her hand from him and crosses her arms. “Anyone ever tell you you're a real troublemaker, Winchester?”

“A few people,” he says, watching her. “You gonna try and kill me like some of your friends?”

“It's rude to think all vamps are friends,” she says. “I have little stake either way, but some of us are trying to keep the streets calm, and you're disrupting that.” 

“Because everyone still thinks I'm Michael,” he says. 

“Yes, and that will be something of a process to dismantle—but shouting at all the humans isn't the way to do it. You might as well get a sign that says the 'end is nigh' and pick a street corner.” 

Dean huffs, but he feels a little calmer, and he's not thinking of Michael eradicating his family from his head and getting all snug in his vessel.

“What, you the neighborhood watch?” 

She smiles and her teeth retract. “You could say it's my block.”

“What happens when the in-fighting starts and someone starts messing with the territory distribution?” 

“You think so little of us, hm? Even _Michael_ saw our value,” she pauses when she spots him wince, “but only to a point; after all, he did enslave every one of us. So. His opinion only goes so far.”

“You _really_ expect me to believe everyone is just going to 'get along' for the good of humanity?”

“Tell me: how often were you screaming at Michael's control while he broke the world? Maybe fifty-fifty? Thirty-seventy?” 

“I don't know. Second one, probably. More in the beginning.”

“Right. And every single monster would be about the same numbers, except the opposite order,” she says, voice quick, “Didn't put up a fuss in the beginning, but started to further down the road. We got... attached.”

“Until someone has to feed,” Dean says coldly.

She unfolds her arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Funnily enough, Michael's cocktail makes that unnecessary. Kiss from an angel. Charming.”

“Wait... you're telling me... _every_ monster on this planet has even a _speck_ of that cocktail to it?”

“Transferred whenever we infected another person. He had to make sure he had total control; couldn't do that if someone didn't get his Kool-Aid.” 

Dean puts a hand to his face and nods. “Okay... Okay. That's... better than I could hope for. I still think y'all are gonna snap on the planet but... whatever, I guess.”

“Well, that's...” She makes a face of disgust. “I'm not sure I want that kind of devil-may-care approval from a Winchester. Doesn't feel right.”

“Fun fact: the devil _does_ apparently care. And that also doesn't feel right, so you and I are on equal footing...?”

“Priya,” she offers. “I've heard about Lucifer.”

“What's your thought on it?”

“Oh, he'll likely try to doom the planet, remixed version. But,” she grins sharply, “it's like you said: whatever, I guess.” She turns away. “Don't shout at my humans, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles. He looks back up at the building and sighs. That's a track record, he thinks. Freaking out humanity by just stepping out his front door.


	14. 14

**14**

Wednesday, June 17, 2319

Dean looks up to the stout woman that approaches him, noting that she's never in his blind spot. He recognizes her as keeping a table at the end of the bar, taking notes during the meetings. 

She stops a few feet away, giving him space, then reaches out and hands him... 

Dean blinks. “What's this?”

She tilts her head, frowning. “A smart phone and a charger. I thought you'd know that.”

Dean blinks again. “No, I-I do. I just don't... why are you handing me them?”

“All the members of the Circle have them, and many others in the city. I had to be certain we still had some in stock before I procured one for you. It has all the leaders of this Circle's numbers programmed into it already.”

“... Oh.” Hesitant, he takes it from her. “I thought Michael nuked communications and networks?”

“He did,” she answers. “The Circles have been globally reclaiming them.”

Damn. He grins, slow. “So what's the data plan? Who's the provider?”

She makes a face. “There is none.”

“Cool. I get wifi on this?”

“The internet is not currently on the to-do list.”

“Ugh. Why not? That's a _great_ communication tool!”

“This will have to do for now. We're still finding monsters that have the skills required for past technology.”

“Okay, fine. Uh, thanks... Hava, right?”

“Yes.” She nods, then ducks back to her table. 

Dean twists the phone around in his hand, then shrugs, and turns it on before swiping a table of his own. 

Morris, a vampire and one of the leaders, walks past his table not long after, tapping on it with a knuckle as he passes. “Careful with that one,” he warns. “She's a kitsune. Tricky little thing.”

“I just assume everyone is tricky,” Dean answers.

Morris laughs. “Fair enough, kid. I can't blame you.”

He spends the rest of his night at home, sitting on the floor across from the earthquake-inducing laundry machines, expecting them to vibrate through the ground at any moment if he takes his eyes off them for even a second. 

His repairs hold.


	15. 15

**15**

Thursday, June 18, 2319

Dean finally allows himself to return to the ritual room, shoved off in a large storage closet. He's been putting this off, but who else is going to do it? Lucifer? Because he and Death have _such_ a great relationship? Not that Dean hasn't _also_ tried to bind Death in the past _and_ then also kill them but... well. He didn't try to start the Apocalypse with them. So... 

Okay, fine. He's not the best one for this, but the last one that locked Death away was an archangel, and it just seems in poor taste to have another archangel involved. 

Still doesn't mean Dean's looking forward to this.

He clears off a section of floor, tumbling his thoughts around his head as he tries to slot memories where he needs them, to recall _how_ Michael went about locking Death up in the first place. Little of Column A, Little of Column B—take pieces of the time he's forced Death into their realm, and break down the box Michael created. 

There's one benefit of this room: Michael never was one to skimp on spell materials. 

He sighs, chalk lines on the floor for the sigil, encircling it, crushing the familiar ingredients into a bowl. He slices his palm to bleed into it—more than would usually be necessary, having a distant memory of Michael using his blood as a key, and quickly wrapping his hand. He sets out and lights four candles before backing up. 

He breathes, spreading his arms and watching the candlelight flicker. “Please, let this work,” he mumbles, then raises his voice, invocation on his tongue, “ _Te nunc invoco, Morem_.”

The room rumbles and he swears, hoping this isn't enough to pull Lucifer from his business.

He hears her well before he sees her. “The _gall_ to bring me out of my Cage and _not bind me_ —”

“No, no, no, just wait—” Dean retreats, arms waving in front of him, “ _Billie_!” 

She draws up short, even though that hesitation might be detrimental to her. She watches him, cautious. “No,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he argues. “Billie, please, it's me. I didn't bind you because I'm not Michael. Michael's gone.”

“Impossible.”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs. “I know. Trust me, I know. But it's true.”

She straightens, tense with anger. “Do you have _any_ idea how long it's been?” she snarls.

“Of course I do, Billie! We were both locked up!” 

“I _warned you_ ,” she says, voice low. 

He jerks and looks away, jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he answers, just as low. “I know.” He forces his next words out, “One big, dumb Winchester.” He draws in a sharp breath. Lucifer didn't pass judgment on him. Neither did the monsters. But Death? Death could, and Death should. “And now every world is gone, except this one.”

“I know. I could feel their burning to the core of my being. I _still_ do,” she tells him. “It will be another handful of centuries until I finally stop feeling their deaths.”

His shoulders slump. “Does freeing you free the Reapers?” he asks. “Or is there more I need to do?”

“No, you've done enough,” her voice cuts through him.

“Okay,” he says. Lucifer keeps mocking Dean about his thoughts on living, but even Dean isn't certain enough to offer himself to Death for punishment. If she wants to end him, she'll do it unprompted. “Look, I know you don't want to do _anything_ for me, but I need a favor, and it benefits _you_.”

She glares at him and he falters, but he keeps talking, “Michael left a door cracked in my head, so he could retake me without going through the proper channels. I need—I need to know it's closed, and I don't know who else to ask.”

“Oh, is _that_ why you released me?” she purrs, sauntering into his space. 

He tenses. “I released you because it was the right thing to do,” Dean snaps. 

Her smile is brief, but it's better than nothing, Dean thinks. 

“I will have to get my affairs in order first. Undo the kinks in my power. Then I will come for you, and we will get that mind of yours sorted out.”

Dean eases. “Thank you.”


	16. 16

**16**

Friday, June 19, 2319

He's been going to more of the Circle meetings and they're not getting any easier, and maybe that's why he keeps showing up. This consistent push to _get out_ , and monsters don't look at him the same way humans do. They're not scared, they just think Dean's going to snap—and really, the feeling is mutual, isn't it? 

The meetings are three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday—and this is the first time Dean feels like he has anything to offer, explaining to Ligthart beforehand (Dean's gotten better at showing up slightly earlier), and then again during the meeting about Death no longer being enslaved and the Reapers, slowly, normalizing. It earns him some appraising stares that aren't completely unwelcome. 

Dean doesn't _want_ their approval. He doesn't _need_ their approval. 

But it helps, just a little. 

He's on his way home, the walk familiar, his surroundings familiar—when they change. It's only slight at first, the shadows cast off by streetlights wrong, and he assumes he's just tired. But the color from passing taillights, and store signs, start to run together like watercolors, and he draws to a stop. 

“Hava took interest in you.”

He turns and there's a woman standing behind him bathed in a streetlight. He frowns. Her shadow features the addition of a large, bristling tail, flicking in agitation, before the shadow smooths out.

He swallows.

“Really? 'cause she seems kind of like a bookworm to me.”

“Never trust the bookworms.”

Morris warned him about Hava, but maybe he warned for the wrong kitsune. She's taller in form than Hava, all her features accented just a _little_ more, almost like they're false. 

He thinks her shadow splits and just as he squints, she's a blur. Quick, rapid movement. More feints than attacks, tripping Dean up every time he thinks he's gotten her, instead grabbing at shadow. There's a deadly grin plastered to her face and a tail—maybe more than _one_ —knocks past Dean, color trailing in distraction, illusion smearing past. 

He spins, slices, feels a mad victory when he cuts a jagged line up her arm, and then she laughs, hair expanding like fiery tails, and she's gone, a mirror image flanking him. “Stand _still_!” he yells, and then there's ten talons all sunk into his chest like a pincushion and she's grappling him to the ground, pupils sharpened to slits. 

When he grabs at her wrists to try and wrest himself free, it's the first time he's made any tangible contact with her. 

“ _Oh_ , I thought this would be a fight, not public indecency.”

Dammit all! Lucifer. Why the hell is this Dean's life?! 

Iridescence flashes in the kitsune's eyes and she dismisses Dean as she dips to the side, keeping low, her tails a paintbrush stroking in warning before vanishing out of sight again, and she's just a woman with too-long auburn hair and a wicked grin. 

Dean scrambles to sit up, pressing a hand over where her nails pierced him. “ _Don't kill her_!” Dean yells.

“You're kidding,” Lucifer drawls. He doesn't take his eyes from the kitsune. “What, does someone have a crush?”

“Screw you, she's friends with someone from the Circle!”

Lucifer considers that. “So I should kill that friend, too, is what I'm hearing.”

The kitsune scuttles and twists, like if she stops moving for too long it'll be the end of her. “Don't you _touch_ Hava!” she screeches. 

Lucifer shrugs. “If you both are set on killing _him_ then I really must insist.”

The shadows around her shift again. “I wasn't going to _kill_ him, I was simply _testing_ him.”

“Testing him or testing me?” Lucifer hums. When she doesn't respond, he continues, “You wanted to know how 'reliable' his defenses were.”

Of all the _inane_ ideas someone could have... 

“Hava had nothing to do with this,” she says. 

“And what do you intend to do with the information you gleamed, hm? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

“You _can't_ watch him at all times,” she says instead of answering.

“Is that a threat?”

“It's a fact. He's weak. He's not even a fraction of the Hunter he once was. He's a liability.”

“He's still _right here_ , you know,” Dean grumbles. 

“I think you'll find my scope is exceptional. I'm curious to know if you'll be fool enough to make the same mistake twice.” Lucifer smirks, slow. He tilts his head. “Isn't there some saying about not being able to trick old foxes twice?” 

She draws a step back, putting further distance between them, ready to bolt the moment she sees her opportunity. 

Lucifer finally moves his gaze from her to look at Dean, and she takes the offered chance. Lucifer tosses his arms up in exasperation. 

“Shut up,” Dean growls. “Hava seems 'up there' in their ranks. She's the last one I need pissed at me because you snapped her friend's neck.”

“Giving monsters second chances, Dean? _My_ how the mighty have fallen.”

Dean snarls as he gets to his feet. “They gave _me_ one, didn't they?” he yells. 

“Are you done?” Lucifer asks, sounding bored. 

“She only went after me because of you!” 

“Your point?”

Dean thinks that's obvious. Lucifer stops this crusade of his and things like this stop happening. Except maybe she wouldn't have given up waiting. Maybe she would have kept going until Dean was on his deathbed, regardless whether or not Lucifer winged in. 

“Forget it,” Dean mutters.

“That's what I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the show coulda had a lot more fun with kitsune :|


	17. 17

**17**

Saturday, June 20, 2319

Lucifer's _tired_.

It's not in the sense that he needs to sleep, but he's spreading himself thinner than he'd like. Making demons, flying around the world, convincing humans that Michael is gone and was never a god even though he'd like to think himself one but there was _a_ god that they _could_ put their faith in. 

Only one of those three things isn't difficult.

His new demons are a counterfeit to their previous models. Dressed up dolls of straw and grass trying to be something they probably never will be. He had finally tried to reclaim any of the demons that had been thrown into Hell when Michael came into power, but the smoke that they exuded was weak wisps, certainly unable to possess a human.

He still had produced a dozen or so whelps that he instructed on How to Deal with the Silent Soul Mass so that left him free of _one_ project. For good measure before he left Hell, he kicked through the dredges of blood pools and blissfully was pleased to find packs of dormant hellhounds, commanding them to watch the demons and report to him if anything went amiss.

Flying was easy. Flying, like healing, wasn't restricted by Lucifer's _favorite_ trendy jewelry. But flying meant dealing with the world and all the trashy pockets of humanity. 

On one of Lucifer's first world tours, he'd gone for the big, grand gestures, keying into the weather, wings shadowed on the fog rolling in behind him, voice booming. He'd sweep through crowd after crowd, telling of how their “Lord Michael” had been defeated, a new day was dawning, yada, yada, yada. 

It _hadn't landed well_.

Michael had been _thorough_ in his conditioning of the human race. These were people that had their hope crushed one too many times and now nothing was going to have them take the bait. They expected Michael to be watching, that this was another test, that it would weed out the unfaithful. 

Grand gestures, as Lucifer had begrudgingly realized, weren't going to cut it. 

He snapped his fingers to try and kill the crowd and the chains mocked him in response and he stared, wondering if he could work around this. _Let_ himself be powerless. He could just as better stay as he is and convince people to trust in _him_. Forget God. God was useless. It's still some big, cosmic _screw you_ , Lucifer thinks, that his Father even _bothered_ to resurrect him. 

Too little too late. 

His Father shouldn't _get_ to have another chance. Michael snuffed him out. Maybe that's good, maybe that's what God deserves for his shitty choice in parenting, just making clones and puppets again and again to play out his stories, the same old rehashed, flopped-show script of _Lucifer's_ rebellion and _Michael_ as the good son—the roles always cast the same for Apocalypse 1.0. 

Lucifer's failing at the role of Messenger of God because he _doesn't believe_. No one can put their faith in _that_. Sure as Hell not Lucifer. 

He needs more.

He needs an aid. Someone in the last millennium that would have been laughed out anytime they spoke up, but now might have some influence.

He needs the Circles. 

And he needs a prophet.


	18. 18

**18**

Monday, June 22, 2319

“As much as I don't wish to recognize the Archangel Lucifer, I haven't seen a single demon stirring anywhere—maybe his doing, maybe we're just lucky,” Ligthart says to the crowd. “Regardless, anyone with even a lick of sensory capabilities knows how afflicted the planet feels. It's cloying to my scales. Earth needs its Creator before it's going to start recovering.”

“Its Creator abandoned it!” a djinn argues. 

“Likely before, yes,” Ligthart says, “but I don't think it was by choice this time. We don't even need _him_ here. We just need his strength so it feeds back into the planet.”

“ _I'd_ like to think _any_ god would do,” Kuehner says, “I think we'd have better luck birthing a god anew than give anything to the Creator, _but_ that might take more time than we have.”

Dean wonders if they _could_ do it. How anyone _wills_ a god into existence. Shouldn't Michael have, then, been a fabricated god? He was worshiped, even if it was out of fear. And maybe that's just it, he realizes. He was the governing body, not just physically but spiritually. 

What Kuehner was suggesting was the reverse. Instead of a god (archangel) convincing the world to worship him and give him deity status, it was the populace to convince the _world_ to _grant_ them a deity.

He's distracted by Hava finding him after the meeting, looking nervous. “Thank you,” she tells him, voice even softer than her usual quiet tones. 

He looks at her cautiously. “For?” he asks, though he's certain he knows.

“For saving Arrel,” she says. He thinks that must be the kitsune that decided to screw with him as a test. “She said you stopped Lucifer from killing her, so thank you. It won't happen again.”

He's not sure he really believes her, but if they end up being flowery words, they're still nice to hear. “Yeah. It's... well, not exactly fine, but, I've made some foolish moves before, so...”

She nods, some of her nerves fading, only leaving the barest traces. She looks like she wants to say more, but then she bows away and makes to pack up her table. Arrel's _'Never trust the bookworms'_ rolls through his mind and he has to wonder how much more dangerous Hava could be instead of Arrel. 

As he heads home, his thoughts return to what Kuehner said. Dean thinks he's still on Team Chuck. Less problems of the unknown, with something coming into being and only making things worse. God as Chuck left them with a flighty individual who wanted to paint a universe but could only use a pen. Chuck as _God_ was a conglomeration of hundreds and thousands of personalities full of overwrought emotional turmoil that caused floods and plagues and didn't understand that you don't always have to rewrite to make something beautiful.

Whichever personality God settled into was a lose-lose situation for humanity, but they were _familiar_ with that.

Dean doubt the planet could handle _new_ without crumpling down around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate to break it to you Ligthart but luck has nothing to do with it, Lucifer literally leveraged you before he had a single demon to his name ;)


	19. 19

**19**

Saturday, June 27, 2319

“You got someone petitioning you.”

“What?” 

Ligthart sighs. “Someone wants to arrange a meeting with you,” he explains, “they put in the request through us. Said they didn't want to spook you by just showing up.”

Dean can appreciate that. He still remembers Ligthart just waltzing on in. Today Ligthart gave Dean the courtesy of knocking first. 

“What's their deal?” Dean asks. “Should I be worried?” And he realizes that he cares about Ligthart's opinion. 

“Werewolf from the Northeast City pack. Garth Fitzgerald IV.”

_'He drank Michael's grace.'_

“Dean?”

_'All right, well, Garth's on ice now. You know, maybe if we kill Michael, it'll cure him.'_

Garth's still alive. Just because Michael didn't kill him in front of Dean didn't mean he should have been _still alive_. But why waste a perfectly good soldier for his army, right? It makes _sense_ for Garth to be alive.

But Dean didn't... he never even thought about it.

And for Garth to want to _meet_ with him? Where'd he fall with the opinion about Dean Winchester? Dean doesn't think he wants to know. 

“Hey, kid.”

If Garth wanted Dean dead, he'd let him. Of anyone in this city, of anyone on the planet. Dean might even do the deed for him so that Lucifer wouldn't smite Garth in retaliation. 

A snap, and there's a flower of flame before Dean's face, idly licking at the air, non-threatening, but it succeeds in drawing Dean's attention, and he gazes past Ligthart's fiery claw to stare at the dragon. 

Ligthart flicks his hand, relinquishing the flame and reverting his hand back to normal. “I take it this werewolf is someone you know?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice too quiet.

“Well, he didn't seem like the type that was on a vengeance campaign. We field those.”

“... You get those a lot?”

Ligthart shrugs. “We dissuade them.”

“You kill them.”

Ligthart makes a face. “What do you care? Just a bunch of monsters, right?” he says coolly. 

“I can't blame anyone that wants vengeance,” Dean answers. 

Ligthart grumbles something under his breath and looks away. “Kuehner is good about talking people down. You realize if someone is going through the effort of talking to the Circle to try and get a piece of you, they're not gonna turn around and knife you if they were told 'no.' Those vamps that ganked you didn't ask for permission. If someone wants to gut you, they're just going to do it.”

Dean isn't certain that's supposed to make him feel better. He's not even certain he knows _how_ it makes him feel.

“So, Garth?” he says after the silence itches at him.

Ligthart sets up a meeting. Two days later at Ilus W. Davis Park, about a ten minute walk from Hitomi Plaza, likely for Dean's convenience more than Garth's. It's a cooler day for June, so Dean rekindles his hoodie-and-sunglasses disguise and settles onto a bench near a shallow pool. 

“Dean.”

Dean jumps at Garth's voice from behind him, but doesn't move other than to hang his head as the familiar man comes around the bench and sits besides him. 

“Thanks for meeting me,” Garth says.

“I wasn't going to tell you 'no,' Garth.”

“You could have though. I know things must be hard for you. I didn't want to make anything worse... it's why I waited so long.”

“ _You_? Make things worse for _me_?” Dean finally looks at him. Garth looks so much like Dean remembers him. Shouldn't werewolves age? God, it's probably Michael's grace screwing with everything. He feels sick. “ _I'm_ the one that's everyone's problem!”

“It's not your fault, Dean.”

Dean gets up, pacing away, restless, ready to snap, but then he thinks about how him and all the lives of the monsters had been put on pause that Christmas Eve. How they've only had a few months to start coming to terms with everything that happened. Dean turns, slowly, and looks at Garth's soft gaze. “It's not _your_ fault, Garth.”

Garth looks away. “If I had just—”

“ _Garth_.”

“If I had done things differently, Dean, if I had _realized_ sooner... I was supposed to be your spy, but then Michael made me his.”

“And who put you there? We did. Michael played us all. He was always a step ahead. He knew what he wanted and he was going to get it. I walked right into his hands and that was going to happen one way or another, because I was too stupid to think I could outsmart an archangel that had already subjugated a different world.”

Now, Garth stands, ready to speak, to argue.

Dean holds up a hand. “Nothing you can say will make me think otherwise,” he says. 

Garth falters, then sighs, shoulders drooping. “But you're... you're okay now, right?”

“I'm alive,” Dean says. 

“The Circle is protecting you.”

“ _This_ one, anyway. And that's still maybe only a third of the group vying for me to stay alive. It's only because two of them are dragons that no one else is taking matters into their own hands.”

“My pack supports the Circle's opinion,” Garth says. “The Southwest Pack is a little more on edge, but Bess keeps trying to talk them around.”

“... Bess is... Bess is alive?”

“Oh, yeah,” Garth says, lighting up. “She'd still been in Wisconsin the night-of. Her and her father tried to keep things from getting bad, but Gertie got bit by another werewolf and that transferred Michael's grace and got the rest of them. Bess took Gertie and came to find me after we all woke up, and Jim's been wrangling werewolves back home into a new pack.”

“I didn't even think about what happened with the monsters _before_ Michael made everyone apeshit. He didn't have the entire _planet_ on his juice before midnight, so how...?”

Garth shrugs. “Infecting was infecting. Controlled monsters versus non-controlled, but eventually Michael got everyone. All that mattered was the cocktail, not what kind of amalgamated beast was left behind.”

“Even if they died quickly, they still got a few people before they did.” Dean groans, slapping his palms over his face. “Sick bastard. I'm really glad your family is okay, Garth.” 

“Yeah, I don't know what I would have done, otherwise.” He winces. “Sorry—I—what about...”

What about _Dean's_ , Dean thinks. “They're all dead.”

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

“It's...” It's not fine, obviously. Will never be fine. He wakes up screaming some nights, flailing and falling over the couch and sobbing into the rug, memories of Michael fading into the recesses of his mind, and the room is dark enough that Dean thinks his hands _must_ be covered in blood. 

Garth steps towards him and envelopes him in a hug that Dean doesn't think he deserves, so his arms remain firmly at his sides, and the sun is up, but he still thinks he sees blood on his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Castiel Fitzgerald may have been born during s14 but just to save me a _little_ less heartache and/or logistical issues, we're going to say they weren't. 
> 
> Also I legit can't remember what the “normal” aging rate is for werewolves but yeah, whatever, we're going with the grace cocktail screwing with things which is my go-to excuse for basically anything anyway :D;


	20. 20

**20**

Monday, July 6, 2319

Having dinner with two dragons and _not_ being the main course probably takes the cake for being #1 on Dean's Weirdness Level since waking up. And there's been _a lot_ of weird. 

He tried to insist that he _didn't like being out in public_ and their argument was _get used to it_.

Not a good argument if anyone thought to _ask_ Dean (which no one would). 

It's really the first _real_ meal Dean's had in months. He had sucked it up and started arranging bi-weekly grocery deliveries with as much pre-made food as he could get. He could avoid near-complete contact with humans, and everywhere knew his address, and if he happened to send anonymous donations to the businesses as the only way they would take his money, so be it. 

Only adding to Dean's discomfort was that all the patrons had cleared out when his party of three walked in; the only people still around were the workers that felt they had no other choice. He had wanted his hoodie but it was back to being upwards in the 90s outside and he preferred the locals' fear over dying to the heat. 

But Dean gets a burger.

And he hasn't had a burger in _literal centuries_. 

“I'd say I'm paying,” Dean muffles over his mouthful, “but I'll give them a heart attack if I try to get them to let me.”

“Perhaps we came out with you for the free meal,” Kuehner says. 

“Does normal food even taste good to you? I thought your preferred delicacy was female virgins.”

She fans herself with a hand. “Ah, the good old days. Townships used to leave me _sacrifices_ right at my lair.” Her expression falls. “And then I was hunted and served my time in Purgatory until Michael fished me out.” 

“Eesh. So what, you were in Purgatory for... thousands of years?” 

“Mm. Not quite. Time moves differently in Purgatory.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean smothers his fries in ketchup. “I took a vacation there with an angel.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she says with far too much delight, “and a vampire, correct?”

“Great, you heard of us,” Dean scoffs. “The vampire didn't go in with us. We joined up somewhere along the way.”

“It was hard _not_ hearing about your gang. Humans—they came 'round sometimes on accident. But an angel? An angel _and_ a human.” She whistles smoke. “Story of the ages.”

“Purgatory is timeless,” Ligthart says, huffing at Kuehner. “Time feels like it moves for an individual—years and centuries could go by, but in reality? It's like this planet in its current state. _Paused_. It never moves forward.”

“Time folds in and around itself,” Kuehner adds. “When Michael had pulled me out I had only been in Purgatory for decades; had he waited a few days, it could have been seconds; had he done it sooner, it could have been a millennium.” 

“... That makes no goddamn sense.”

“I think the key part of that sentence is 'God,'” Ligthart responds. 

“Yeah. Y'know. You're probably right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say I was taking liberties. I mean who could say Purgatory _doesn't_ work like this huh? (Anyone. Anyone could say it.) 
> 
> I knew how I wanted Purgatory to function and I fought forever trying to put it into words and when I went to draw it out I instantly thought of The Good Place so if you know anything about _that_ it's kind of similar. 
> 
> (Fun fact though, I had 28k words written before I actually _watched_ s8e1 instead of just a Purgatory supercut and I have _no idea why_ but I _swore_ time in Purgatory moved differently kind of like time in Hell moved differently.)
> 
> _OH WELL._


	21. 21

**21**

Tuesday, July 14, 2319

Dean's got his feet up on the armrest of the couch when Lucifer appears. “Look what the planet dragged in,” Dean mutters. He's reading again, another, newer journal. The clerk is getting... used to seeing him. Some whispered, abhorrent part of his brain tells him she's getting _complacent_ and that should be _remedied_. He ignores that part of his brain. “The hell have you been, anyway?” 

It's probably because Dean has actually stayed out of trouble that he hasn't seen Lucifer in almost a month.

“I realize you're in a _bubble_ , but the Earth is bigger than Kansas City, and trying to convince other Circles around the globe that Michael isn't _exactly_ easy.”

“I never wanted you to do a world tour for me!”

“I'm not _doing_ it for you, I am _doing_ it so I'm not bound up like the planet's _pet_.”

Dean closes his book and tosses it on the glass coffee table, dropping his feet to the rug and staring at Lucifer. “Gee. I'm sorry your life is so difficult.” 

“I didn't want to be trapped on this barely functioning rock! I didn't ask to be brought back,” Lucifer snaps. “I wanted more than this!” 

“Dude, and I wanted to maybe wake up to a future that had spaceships and flying cars and all that _bullshit_ that we were promised from dumb sci-fi, but y'know, we don't get that—know why? Because Michael. Michael _stagnated_ the world so it _barely_ changed, it _barely_ grew. Humans tried. I can see it,” he gestures to the journal on the table, “I can see they tried—but most everything got squeezed down and suppressed because that's just what Michael does!”

“I would have thought you wanted to wake up to your brother being alive,” Lucifer sneers.

Dean stands so fast he almost unbalances himself, finger held up in warning. “I wanted my family, but I couldn't have that because I watched them all _die_!” he yells. 

“Well maybe you shouldn't have said 'yes' to Michael.”

“No, fuck you, Lucifer,” Dean shouts, storming towards the devil, little care for his own livelihood. “You want to play the blame game? _Maybe_ neither of you should have come back from that apocalyptic _mess_! You brought Michael here. _You_ did.”

Lucifer looms over Dean, eyes like firelight. “I wanted to be with my son,” he says very dangerously.

Dean tilts his head. “And how'd that work out for you. Just like Dad, huh? Lying to your kids must be a family trait.” Dean jumps when Lucifer's hand comes up and the bindings shriek and Lucifer instead slams his arm into Dean, throwing him backwards. 

Dean _laughs_. He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. He knows he should be careful. But he laughs until he's crying and doubling over. 

“What? Can't handle the truth?” he asks through the tangle of sobs. “You wanna know something great?” He backpedals away from Lucifer as the devil advances. “Jack talked a lot. Michael kept him around the longest. And he'd talk about family because it pissed Michael off, but Michael still wouldn't kill him. And he'd talk about you, sometimes. How he dared to have some misplaced lick of hope. And every time— _every time_ —”

He chokes on the words as Lucifer bodily checks him onto the coffee table, Dean's journal going flying, and Lucifer steps over him and grabs him roughly. 

“Every time,” Dean laughs, “Michael rubbed it in his face that good ol' Dad didn't love him and only wanted him for his power.” Dean sags limply in Lucifer's grasp, shaking with far too many emotions. “You can't even use your power to beat me into oblivion now.”

Lucifer drops him and steps away. Dean throws an arm over his face. “Guess none of us get what we want!” he shouts. Dean hears something break. 

If Lucifer came here for a reason, Dean's got no idea, because the devil is long gone when Dean finally gets a hold of himself.

He finds a broken vase. It's little consequence to him. The only things that don't belong to Michael in this place are a growing stack of journals speaking of a world that Dean created by fucking up.


	22. 22

**22**

Sunday, August 2, 2319

Somewhere after the tenth dragons-force-Dean-out-to-dinner time, Dean asks for help. He's sick of sleeping on the couch. It's been over three months, even if one of those months he was catatonic. He wants a real bed, he wants a bed _room_. 

Dean throws a lot of shit out that was in one of the rooms that _normal humans_ would have made a bedroom. He wants to burn the rest but a part of him fears that something in all this organized chaos may prove useful, so he shoves it into Michael's other office. Consolidates the desks. And then he's just left with an empty, usable room. 

“I need to get a bed to an elevator and into my room,” he says and really, almost, doesn't feel stupid for saying it.

“We're not some moving company,” Kuehner replies, blowing a smoke ring at him. 

Dean folds his arms, defensive, and glances away. “Yeah, well, you're the closest people I have to,” he swallows down the word “friends” as though it might kill him, “acquaintances. That's how these things work.”

He thinks he could ask Garth and Bess, but they live at the other end of the city from him and if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't want to drag them down, and even more so... he just doesn't want them to see the sorry state his thoughts often put him in. 

“You don't seem like the type to ask for help,” Ligthart sighs.

“He _hasn't_ asked for help,” Kuehner argues.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look back at them. “Will you help me?” he manages.

He's met with matching grins. 

It's how the next day he ends up with an entire room of furniture that _belongs_ to him, and the store clerks were so thrown by watching him try out mattresses that they hardly even balked at him. 

“You need anything before the meeting?” Ligthart asks.

Dean grabs his jacket. “Nah, I'm all set.”

The three of them entering Howl at the Moon together turns some heads, but most of the attendees have come to terms with the fact that Dean isn't going _away_. There are less glares, less callous remarks. He's not looking over his shoulder all the time—when he's here, anyway. 

He listens to the reports, the accounts on human activity, and it's only when someone stands and says, with a weird laugh that, “Folks around Union Hill were... chatting about... their 'Lord' furniture shopping. They'd really felt more at ease, like he was 'normal.' But it still certainly made them very... uncomfortable.”

“Hey! I needed a mattress, okay!”

It's the first time, after _countless_ meetings, that Dean has spoken without being spoken _to_. 

There's a strange silence that follows and Dean wonders if he's wrecked what little equilibrium he's gotten here, but then the speaker chuckles and nods before sitting back down. 

Morris looks up, breaking through the tension, “Maybe that gives us an in. There's enough humans that are starting to have those 'uncomfortable' encounters. Things might be localized to this part of the city, but word is spreading. People talk. We use that.”

It sounds stupid to Dean's ears, but at the same time it's something he _can_ do. His interactions with the city aren't great, but maybe one of these days what's left of his humanity will be able to blend back in. Maybe eventually someone will just see him as _normal_ , not a walking manipulator. 

And yet even _this_ , just a bit, raises his nerves, but he nods along with the suggestion, tongue-tied once more.


	23. 23

**23**

Sunday, August 9, 2319

Dean feels a warm heartbeat within him that isn't... his own. It's a quiet hum. He'd thought his body had rid itself of the rest of Michael's lingering grace, but this feels... _different_. A fledgling still trying to rebuild—

_Still trying to rebuild—_

His eyes go _wide_ and he staggers under the weight of his own thoughts:

“I told you,” Michael's saying, stalking a circle around the man trapped within the spin and coils of sigils, drawn out in blood and grace. Michael rolls up his sleeves and cracks his neck before crouching down and staring at the ever-defiant eyes of Jack Kline. “I wasn't going to let myself feel those _familial bonds_ again.” He smirks and reaches up a hand, eyes flashing. Jack curls in on himself further, lurching against the unseen ripples of power. “Your little flame's finally regenerated quite a bit.”

“You can't,” Jack says through grit teeth.

“I can't?” Michael sings back. “I can't what?” He clenches his hand into a fist and Jack's mouth gapes in a soundless scream, power bleeding from his eyes and cracking at his skin. “Sorry, what's that? I can't hear you.” He leans closer. “I _can't_ take your power, is that right? Oh, but Jack, that's the only reason I've let you live this long.” 

“Dean—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Michael mocks. “You _want_ him to watch you die, is that right? Well, I can't blame you, it's his fault you're in the mess, after all.”

“No, that's not—”

Michael's head lolls backwards, the light in his eyes flickering, and then his body goes slack, barely able to hold itself up, and Dean Winchester is shuddering and desperately reaching past the binding spell. “Jack! _Jack_!” 

“Dean—he's going to—”

“Shit, no, I'm sorry, I can't,” Dean looks around wildly for something that might _help_ him. “Jack. Anything you can draw up, you've gotta kill me. It's the only way, you hear?” 

Jack shakes his head. “I can't, Dean, I'm not strong enough yet.”

“You gotta try, Jack,” Dean says, tears on his cheek. “ _Please_. There's no one left I can ask.”

Jack nods and closes his eyes. When he looks back up at Dean, it's with a yellow gaze and the burn of firelight, a flare going off as the flames strike kindling and get stronger— _stronger_ , a beacon that wasn't there seconds ago—

Dean's body tenses and his hand strikes, taking Jack by the neck, his eyes alight with grace again. Michael smirks. “ _There's_ that spark I was looking for,” he says. “I just wanted it to get going a _little_ more before I took it all from you.” His other hand comes up, archangel blade heavy in his grip as he slices at Jack's collarbone, severing the connection of container and grace, pulling the new, freshly regenerated spirit into himself. 

Jack falls lax in his grasp and Michael blows his own mind _open_ so that Dean Winchester sees as Michael spins his blade and embeds it into Jack's chest, a supernova of light exploding from his mouth and eyes and Michael just grins and grins and—

Dean drags a hand over his face and steadies himself, reordering his thoughts.

God had expelled Michael from Dean, but that part of Jack that Michael had stolen was still within him. Michael must have shredded it like he shredded Dean's soul, but it had started to reignite.

_Fuck_ , Dean thinks. If Lucifer finds out, Dean is so fucked.


	24. 24

**24**

Saturday, August 15, 2319

“Wait, _what_?” Dean snaps. 

“The prophet has been convincing the Circles around the globe that Michael is gone,” Lucifer repeats. 

“What _prophet_?”

“The one I found... mmm, a month ago.”

“And you're only _just_ telling me this _now_?”

Lucifer shrugs. “I had intended to tell you sooner.”

Dean remembers when he last saw Lucifer. He remembers shouting, sobbing. He remembers a shattered vase. He remembers wondering why Lucifer had even shown up.

“Oh,” he says unevenly. “How did you find him?”

“Her,” Lucifer corrects. “The benefit of being the _only_ angelic being on the planet is that you can send a _lot_ of chatter into the winds and eventually someone is going to have a very noticeable breakdown.”

“That's screwed up, man.”

“It was necessary,” Lucifer reasons. “I've been able to drop her in with a Circle for a few days, give her time to talk about what she knows and believes, and then pick her up and do it again elsewhere.”

“How's she feel about all this?”

“ _Well_ , she knows hundreds of prophets before her were executed by Michael, and look, aren't I _nice_ keeping her alive?”

Dean makes a face. Necessary. _Right_.


	25. 25

**25**

Thursday, August 20, 2319

_Werewolf_ his mind screams as he clambers across the concrete to try and grab his scattered angel blade but a claw tears into his jacket and launches him towards the waiting, snarling packmates. He's bleeding from a gash in his side already, a second strike only grazing Dean's arm. 

Dean gets his pocket knife in hand and slices but it does little to deter any of them—wouldn't, of course. Even if it was silver, Michael's cocktail made damn sure that the pups didn't care about such things anymore.

He's not going to decapitate anyone with this knife. 

He breathes, on the defensive and making cutting motions every time they come near him, but they're closing in and there's _too many_.

“What pack are you from?” he demands, wondering if Garth's turned on him and went for Dean, anyway. The Southwest though—they were on the fence with him, but maybe no longer.

“Out of town,” is his answer, and that shouldn't relieve him as much as it does. 

“Then you're messing with someone's territory,” Dean snarls. 

“Doesn't matter as long as we complete our mission,” another says, and lunges for Dean's throat, instead, they sink teeth into Lucifer's arm, the archangel suddenly very much in Dean's space.

Lucifer sighs, staring at the werewolf in disgust. “I'm busy, you know,” he says, disinterested. He reaches up his other hand and thrusts it through the werewolf's chest and when teeth go slack and release his arm, he pulls his hand free and drops the corpse.

He stares around at the rest of the pack, blood coating both his arms as he holds them up, flexing his fingertips, eyes burning red. “I don't care about pack politics,” he drawls, “I don't care about territory disputes; it's not my job to kill all you mangy mutts.”

He reaches out in response as another breaks from the circle towards him, hand to shoulder and arm wrapping around to snap the werewolf's neck. 

“Get out,” Lucifer snarls, “and I won't set every Circle in every city to string you up as an example.” 

_Dean_ backs away, feeling the chill, his breath on the air. The remaining wolves whimper, the acknowledgment of a higher predator in their eyes. They slink away, one after the other. 

Lucifer turns to face Dean and Dean violently flinches from Lucifer's _healing touch_ —like the devil might be pissed and exhausted but he's _willing_ to heal Dean when he's never before considered it—but Dean _can't_ afford for him to make contact. “I'm fine,” he says, too quick, breathing faster than he had from the adrenaline of the battle.

Lucifer's lips curl and the chill is worse and Dean shivers. “Suit yourself,” Lucifer growls. “I am getting _so tired_ of you, Winchester,” Lucifer says before he disappears. 

Dean tries not to think of the song of Jack's grace. He's gotta be more careful.


	26. 26

**26**

Thursday, August 20, 2319

Lucifer kills a handful of his earliest demons with a banishing wave as he reappears in Hell, feeling the quake answering him in a domain that he embodies; Hell an extension of himself, another limb. 

He replaces them easily. Better built. Personality and purpose to them. The rebellious souls, he thinks. The ones that tried to stand against Michael, create safe houses; Hunters, teaching how to kill the monsters that were on every street corner, in their work. They probably _should_ have gone to Heaven, and Lucifer doesn't know if it was Michael's spite or if their twisted darkness overwhelmed and corrupted their souls. 

Maybe this is why Heaven is still afloat. It wasn't bursting at the seams with souls because Hell took the brunt of the dead. 

(Lucifer isn't putting them back. Maybe that's _his_ spite.)

He's got this down, he thinks. Feeds his frustration into them and _oh_ , all they _really_ needed was that personal touch, mm?


	27. 27

**27**

Saturday, August 22, 2319

Death comes to visit. Dean would like to think it's one of the more normal things in his life these days. 

“Hello, Dean,” Billie greets, and Dean has to drag his notes off his face from where he very much _wasn't doing anything_. “Got time for me?”

“As you can see, I'm very busy,” Dean says, dropping the papers from his hand and watching them scatter. He raises a brow at her from where he lays on the couch. “All settled again?”

She rolls her shoulders. “I believe so. And, well, the Reapers have begun to shift into a... more natural way of life.” 

He finally sits up. “What did he even have them doing? Like, 'enslaved Reapers' doesn't exactly explain a whole lot.”

“Cleanup, mostly,” she scowls. “Ghosts. He... forced them to break the Laws, taking ghosts whether or not they desired to move on.” There's anger in her eyes, and Dean doesn't think it's for him, but it still feels like it. “Most of those souls were taken to Hell.”

“... Even if they didn't belong there?”

“Even if,” she echoes. “As he saw it, if there were ghosts left behind, they didn't 'settle' into his world order. So they were only meant to be bound for Hell.”

“Asshole,” Dean growls. “So I gotta start worrying about ghosts?” 

“Perhaps,” she admits. She continues, “He sometimes had them executing humans that he didn't particularly care for and needed a Reaper's _subtly_ that his little monster army couldn't achieve.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean mumbles. “Someone told me that they thought Michael used Reapers to fetch some dragon souls from Purgatory?”

“ _Ah_... yes,” she says airily. “ _Sacrificed_ Reapers to Purgatory is more like it. I could watch through my Reapers' eyes while I was locked away, you see. He rounded them up like they were _hounds_ and he was their master, and waited all nice and _safe_ on his side of the rift as he sent them out again and again until he got what he wanted.”

“I'm sorry,” Dean says. 

“ _Well_.” She shakes herself. “Let's make it so it _never_ happens again, yes? You're lucky this role gives me some insight on soul magic.”

“I remember your predecessor's work with Sam,” Dean says. “Please, anything you can do, Billie. I can't—I can't go through this again.”

“You and me both,” she agrees. She steps over to him and raises a brow. “This will hurt.” 

“I kinda expected it to.”

She reaches out. 

Dean sees white. 

He wakes unsure of how much time has passed, again laid out across the couch. His eyes latch onto a bottle for pain relief and a glass of water. Thanks for apparently keeping pharmaceuticals going, Michael. Makes Dean wonder if there are still therapists; Michael needed the world to function, right? He couldn't just nuke mental health. Whatever. Not like anyone would willingly see him.

He groans. 

“'All good, Winchester,'” Lucifer says. 

Dean groans louder and flings an arm over his forehead. 

“Long night drinking?” Lucifer continues, far too earsplitting for Dean in that moment. He sets the note back down, presumably from where he snagged it. “Got laid?” 

“God no,” Dean winces. Billie would reap him. “What day is it?” he asks. 

Lucifer laughs. “ _Wow_ , that bad, hm?”

“ _Lucifer_.” Dean would shuffle around to get his phone from his pocket if he could move, but his entire body is locked up. 

“Tuesday.”

Dean might just swallow his tongue. “Date?” he croaks. 

He thinks he can _feel_ Lucifer's eyeroll.

“Twenty-fifth.”

That's... okay. That's only three days out. Maybe four depending what _time_ it was. Awesome. Thanks, Death. According to her note, she dealt with his door. He didn't expect it to wreck him _this_ badly though. 

“What do you want?” Dean mutters, rolling onto his back, keeping the arm over his face to block out the light. 

“Your AA sponsor mentioned you missed the meeting.”

Right. He was unconscious through Monday. He must have a missed call or two. This is the problem with regularly, _obsessively_ , showing up to the meetings. 

“Ligthart?” he asks.

“The other one.”

Kuehner, then. “Why the heck were you at the meeting?”

“I had business to attend to.”

Which meant it was unimportant to Dean. Or he was being a dick about it—probably more likely. 

“So, still alive then,” Lucifer pronounces.

“Despite a visit from Death, yes.”

“… I'm sorry?”

Dean grins at the surprise in Lucifer's voice. _Good_. Trip him up for once. Except now that it's out there, it isn't like Lucifer's going to let it _go_. And really, Dean... _should_ tell _someone_ that he's... he's okay now. That he's not a walking timebomb. And as fucked up as it is he'd rather tell Lucifer than anyone of the Circle because he can just _imagine_ their judgment of him. That he went _months_ hiding this from them, that it was even a possibility that Michael could just gank him again. 

Dean's clearly been silent too long, because Lucifer continues, “You must really want to die if Death is paying you visits.”

“Oh shut up—!” Dean yells, jolting upright to glare at Lucifer, only to double over with a rasp of pain and nope, no, not moving is still the go-to plan. He shivers. Soul-work is _never_ pleasant. Though he thinks in his particular case that Billie may have pushed just a _little_ harder out of revenge for being locked up for three centuries because Dean went and did exactly what she told him not to do. 

He's not sure Billie is that petty, but he wouldn't blame her. 

“Michael did something to me,” he admits, gaze fixated to the floor. “He gave me up at one point because he got sick of me fighting him. But, as he put it, he 'left the door open just a crack' so that he could retake his vessel without a 'yes' being involved.” 

“ _Ohh_ ,” Lucifer purrs, “clever, _bro_. I should have thought of that... all those times I could have just resettled into Sammy.”

“Shut up,” Dean repeats with a growl, “will you just listen to me?” Dean doesn't need to even _think_ about what would have happened if Lucifer _had_ done the same thing to Sam way back in the beginning during that first Apocalypse. It feels like lifetimes ago and, Dean supposes, it was. “Billie—Death—she sealed it up, or something.” He waves at the note on the table. “Got the all clear, anyway.”

“Ah, yes, drooling into your cushions.” 

“Fuck off, it was Saturday last I knew.”

Lucifer whistles. “Impressive that you're still kicking. The resilience of Winchesters astounds me.”

Resilience. Right. Nothing at all to do with Dean's constant background soundtrack. He sighs and wiggles his phone free. Which is dead. Of course it is. He lobs it onto the coffee table and grabs the bottle of pills, takes out more than is a “normal” dosage, and downs them with the water. 

Even if Billie had been petty, she left him with the means to recover. 

“Anyway, Death and the Reapers should be back to their status quo.” 

“Delightful.”

Dean rolls over, putting his back to Lucifer. 

He hears Lucifer scoff. 

“Shut it,” Dean grumbles, “I'll try not to be comatose for another few days.” 

“I'm sure that would be healthier for you.”

Probably.

Dean hears Lucifer's wings, and then lets himself fall back to sleep.


	28. 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdPMaMxL0xM&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=1) By Night by Sophie Hutchings

**28**

Wednesday, August 26, 2319

There's a middle-aged, olive-skinned woman that Dean doesn't recognize at the Circle meeting, but she hones in on him the moment he enters and he knows a lot of people hate him, but usually the monsters _don't_ level that many daggers in their glare at him. 

Morris is quick to throw an arm around his shoulder and while Dean tenses, he doesn't react any further. Morris has this weird tendency to show his face anytime Dean's up against someone new. 

“'Careful with that one'?” Dean asks before Morris can speak.

The vampire grins. “Got it in one. Except she's a different animal entirely. Lucifer put Kuehner in charge of her at the end of last meeting. That's the prophet.” 

Oh.

That's...

Even more disorienting, Dean thinks. He can safely say that he doesn't know a _single human_ that would look at him with such open hatred. 

In some warped way it's almost a relief. 

Dean recognizes that it says a whole lot about him. 

He also thinks this must have been why Lucifer was at the _last_ meeting, which is _bullshit_ that he didn't tell Dean about the prophet. So, definitely just being a dick. 

Figures.

“You should probably meet her,” Morris tells him.

“Probably,” Dean agrees, but makes no sign of moving in her direction. 

Morris snorts, and leaves him to it. Dean almost wants to tell him sometime that he appreciates him for it. 

He sighs and finds a table and pretends he's too oblivious to notice her looks. The meeting goes off as normal, reports from around the city, white noise to Dean. The skinwalker, Hayden, a scrawny individual appearing physically older than any of the leaders, has been in charge of the proceedings, the pair of dragons acting as bodyguards for the prophet instead. It's only when things wrap up and Hayden moves out of the limelight that Kuehner approaches the bar with the prophet at her side. 

“Ruth Seckel,” Kuehner introduces. “Prophet of the Lord. Normal business is traveling around to other Circles of the world discussing the so-called 'God Plan.' We've gone over that ad nauseam, so I won't waste our time. However, are there any questions?”

“Can you actually hear God?” someone asks.

Dean is glad someone did. He didn't really want to draw attention to himself from _her_. 

“Not usually,” Ruth answers. “I think, sometimes, there's something _other_ there, trying to be heard.”

“What about Michael?” another asks.

“I have not. Trust me when I say if I hear from him, I will not keep it quiet.”

Dean's not sure what he'd do if he ever found out someone _did_ know about Michael and _did_ keep it quiet. It makes him sick just thinking about it, and that his only reassurance is the vigilance of monsters. 

He looks up when she approaches him, and braces himself. “Michael killed my family for their defiance,” is the first thing she says to him, voice cold. 

“Michael killed _my_ family for their defiance,” Dean echoes. 

She glances away. 

“I'm doing this for them,” she states. “Not you.”

“Considering we've never met, I wouldn't assume that you would be doing it for me. Lucifer's not forcing you into it, then?”

After a long moment, she says, “No.” 

He leans forward, suddenly worried. “You sure? I'll kick his ass for you if I have to.” Dean would try, anyway. It wouldn't go well for him, and would only end with Lucifer finding Jack's power and ripping it out of Dean.

“He isn't a problem,” she answers.

Ugh. Fine. It's not like he could blame her for not telling him things, whether or not it's because she just doesn't like him or she's used to hiding her vulnerability when she's typically the only human in a room of monsters. 

“How long have you even been a prophet?” Dean asks. “Michael was... pretty thorough, I thought...”

“Michael knew I was 'next in line' and tried to find me, but Lucifer thinks I was only 'gifted' my full abilities when Michael was cast out. I heard his screaming. Even without Lucifer's say-so, I know better than most that Michael is gone.”

“... Right. Look, you gotta be careful with Lucifer. He's...” Dean trails off. He doesn't even think if he told her that Lucifer was the devil that she would understand what it meant. “He's dangerous,” he finishes lamely. “Just don't put your trust in him.”

She smiles, but it's tired. “Don't you know? Humans don't trust in anything.” She turns away and walks back towards Kuehner.

Dean watches her go.

He wishes she was wrong.

Hava takes her place and drops a stack of pages onto Dean's table without comment. Dean stares at them, then at her, then picks up the top sheet.

> **STATUS REPORT**  
>  _Sunday, March 1st, 2319_
> 
> EXECUTED FOR TREASON  
>  Adams, Andre  
>  Adams, Anika  
>  Cook, Mollie  
>  Cooper, Declan  
>  Deleon, Grace  
>  Dominguez, Luis  
>  Gardner, Yasmin  
>  Haines, Tanisha  
>  Harrison, Robin  
>  Rivera, Elian  
>  Salinas, Herbert  
>  Seckel, Daniel  
>  Seckel, Ellie  
>  Seckel, Leonard  
>  Tate, Jay  
>  Tate, Phillip  
>  Warren, Martin  
>  Warren, Sara  
>  Warren, Shane  
>  Warren, Ted  
>  Wyatt, Marc
> 
> WANTED FOR TREASON  
>  Deleon, Esther  
>  Frost, Lisa  
>  Frost, Tristan  
>  Lawrence, Rosa  
>  Parsons, Cait  
>  Parsons, Connor  
>  Parsons, Jasper  
>  Seckel, Ruth  
>  Wyatt, Henry
> 
> REFORMED LOCATIONS  
>  Trysull, England  
>  Freiburg, Germany 

Dean drops it. “The hell?” he whispers. That's a pretty thick pile of papers.

“I found what I could,” she says, as though it's any explanation. 

“Hava, _what_?” is all Dean gets out, pointing at the stack and staring at her.

She cocks her head to the side. “The Commandant released them bi-monthly. A... fear-tactic, I imagine, for the human populace.”

“Okay... okay but... why are you giving them to me?”

“You've been researching the past, have you not?” she asks. “I thought you might find them interesting. I could only find the last few years. I don't know how far back they really go. Some of the early ones are a bit more...” She reaches out and pulls at the bottom of her pile, looks it over, and then hands it to him.

It's much the same as the last, dated _Friday, July 1st, 2314_ except this is two pages, front and back, of executions, a full page of people who were wanted, and a full page of reformations. Dean's stomach turns at the rest of it.

> REPORT ALL TRANSGRESSIONS TO YOUR SUPERVISOR  
>  HELP PURIFY YOUR PLANET; TURN OVER ALL WHO ARE ACCUSED OF TREASON  
>  IF FOUND PROVIDING AID, YOU TOO WILL BE EXECUTED  
>  YOUR LORD IS ALWAYS WATCHING

“T-Thanks, Hava,” he chokes out. He knows she means well by doing this.

She nods and pivots away. Dean thumbs through the stack of papers. Five or so years, bi-monthly. That's something like thirty reports, but he's unsure how many pages each report is. _Your Lord is always watching_. Dean shivers. He collects the stack and leaves the meeting. 

Dean spends longer than he cares to admit going through each report and compiling all the names, fanning the sheets out along both his kitchen and coffee table, and then deciding to say fuck it and kick open one of the conference rooms a floor below him, taking it over completely with the pages. 

He adds his mound of journals to the mix, rereading each slowly, marking up names, locations, dates, using tiny ripped pieces of paper to bookmark pages of note. 

He makes sure to still attend the Circle meetings. Makes sure to, really, thank Hava for the reports. The prophet's gone, already winged off to her next location. Of all the Circles in the globe, Kansas City's is likely less of a concern for her—for Lucifer. They've got Dean, Commandant-free. And they maybe-kinda-sorta are on-board with the God Plan, even if they (like Dean) hate it.

Dean only gets shanked once or twice as the weeks pass, and he can proudly say _he didn't need Lucifer's help_ , taking care of the fight before whatever weird blood-sense Lucifer's got going on triggered. So he maybe stared at the bodies for a long while. Stared at the blood on his blade, on his hands. Felt his muscles numb with the washed-over whispers of memory, of Michael. 

Definitely lost his lunch in an alleyway one of the times. 

(He had thought maybe he'd be able to do this, eventually. That one day he could fight and his limbs would feel like they _belong_ to him and the motions wouldn't immediately be reminiscent of Michael. But he can't. Hunting will always bring him back to _this_. Michael took even that from him, and maybe he could fight it. Maybe he could push back; there's likely ghosts out there, that's something that goes against this new monster world. 

_But he can't_. Admitting it is a weakness. He just...)

Dean continues his compilation. He starts cross-referencing what he has from the journals to the reports, starts to find matches, throwing words on pages into context. 

Dean doomed every single one of these people, but like hell is he going to let any of them be forgotten.

So he works, because this is something he can do. This lets him stay in the safety of the indoors, this lets him avoid the people out there that still hate him, that make him think he needs to lash out anytime someone gets too close, that make him think he doesn't _belong_ and never will. This lets him feel like he's _doing_ something, instead of letting... everyone fight his battles. 

Lucifer. The Circles. Ruth. And yeah, it isn't like Dean has wings, he can't just go around preaching on his own, but Dean's _barely_ safe in his own city, let alone the rest of the goddamn _world_. He'd be gutted alive the moment he left Kansas City, before Lucifer even had a chance to step in. 

He's scared. Dammit. What else is new. 

_He works_. Ligthart and Kuehner get him out, sometimes. They still force him to dinner, like always, picking him up from Hitomi every time because Dean can't handle just meeting them. They keep him from being a hermit. Even Priya flags him down on his way back from the bookstore a few times while she's on her patrol and he must look ghastly if she doesn't berate him about anything, just talks his ear off about any nonsensical thing she can think of, and he hates that he needs this. That he's _this_ alone that he needs their pity, and can't even be mad at them for it. 

And Dean's only too stupid, once, when September blurs away into October and he wanders further than his usual radius, _way_ into the Southwestern part of the city, and he doesn't remember anything but the blur of a hulked mass bulldozing him, and then nothing. 

He hears voices, trickling slowly into his awareness, his mind taking too long to process them. He can't move, and he can't tell if it's just the numbness from having been hit by a proverbial truck, or more to it. 

“You sure you want me to do this, Camille?” 

“The Circle will _thank us_ for this. We keep the vessel out of everyone's way and that archangel keeps his battery. It's a win-win.”

Dean shifts and groans and blinks up at the tattooed figure looming over him, blue-glowing eyes seeming... hesitant. Dean is pretty sure he's never had a djinn stare at him in quite that way. Awesome. He swallows. “I think I've done pretty good keeping out of everyone's way,” Dean croaks.

“Oh, and yet you strolled on into my territory,” the other voice—Camille, he guesses, snarls. 

“Um. Sorry?” 

He forces himself to sit up as the numbness begins to recede, concrete cool beneath him. His wrists and ankles are bound. Beautiful. He takes in his surroundings, beyond the djinn. Camille to the forefront, and a few distant figures hiding in darkness, crouched along cinder blocks. They look about as uncertain as the djinn. 

So. Southwestern Pack being “on the fence” about him seems accurate. “Whatever she's got planned you guys,” he says to the shadows, “don't let her do this. No one wants this.”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Camille commands, stepping into his line of sight, eyes floodlights. “Put him _out_ , Proctor!”

“Don't put me out, Proctor,” Dean pleads, addressing the djinn. “The dragons freak out if I miss _one_ meeting. What're you gonna do when I miss _more_ than that?”

Camille holds up a phone and turns on the screen. That would, in fact, be Dean's skyline background. “The benefits of technology,” she says. 

Shit. He struggles against his bindings, yelling, “You _know_ this is a bad idea! You _all_ do!” 

“Shh,” Camille says, “Don't you want to be happy again? Proctor can give that to you. See, we're helping each other.”

“No!” He kicks out as Proctor crouches down by him, tattoos crawling up his arms, magic live wires. “Get the fuck away from me!” Dean yells, recoiling from the touch but having nowhere to move as the hand lays over his head. 

“Sorry,” Proctor says.

And Dean, laughably, thinks he means it. 

Jack's song reaches a crescendo—and then it silences in one dissonant crack. 

“ _Dean, come on_!” 

Dean blinks, confused, shaking his head and looking behind him at the treeline, then back at the lake, and Sam, Jack, and Cas setting out a couple of coolers and getting the fishing gear ready.

“Right, yeah, sorry,” Dean says, frowning. 

“You've been standing there for awhile,” Sam says, “you okay?”

“He just wants to get out of helping,” Jack jokes. 

“No, I...” He laughs it off. “Sorry. Just... felt like I was trapped in a nightmare that I wasn't ever going to wake up from, y'know?”

“Well, you're here with us now, Dean,” Cas says.


	29. 29

**29**

Thursday, August 27, 2319

“How was it meeting the infamous shell of a vessel?” Lucifer asks.

“He warned me about you.”

“Predictable!” Lucifer crows. “I told you he would.” 

“Do you want a reward?” Ruth asks, but continues before Lucifer can speak, “Where am I going next?” 

“South America,” Lucifer answers. “We'll start you moving through Brazil. Have you met a rugaru in your travels?”

“A few.”

“Well, one of the leaders where we're going is one. He's... _prickly_. Very stubborn in his ways.”

“Is he my roommate for this stay?” 

“No. I'm leaving you with a wraith. Shockingly, she seems to be the more reasonable of the two.”

He moves Ruth every few days, hitting the major cities, the most influential Circles. They've gone through different pockets of Europe and Asia already, a few in Canada, fewer in the United States. Lucifer thinks the world's dragons had taken to flying early in, spreading communications as soon as they had them, and that helped. The quick order the supernatural world made to put a _stop_ on Michael was impressive. Had any angels been alive, Lucifer doubts they would have made as much progress.

Not that the angels would have stepped in. Probably would have kept locked away in Heaven, cowering. 

(Had there been any demons Hell wouldn't have been much better.

By this point Lucifer only had a handful of demons after he killed most of them. He still told the ones that were left that they wouldn't like it on the surface. It's not even a lie.) 

He goes to Heaven only once, to reaffirm in his mind that it's still functioning. If Heaven erupts, anything he's working on will be for naught. 

He despises it here. Even staring at his Father's old throne makes his hatred rise. “How's it feel, Pops, being the one locked up by Michael this time?” he snarls at the empty air, shaking. He sits down and the absolute _void_ that greets him is so disturbingly different than it was before. But there are quiet trickles, here and there. Nothing like the _'please, God, please save me'_ or the demands of why things were happening to them, this wasn't fair. No, this was the monsters, reaching confused thoughts into the ether, never ones to pray before—except maybe those that had been turned the night Michael came into power. 

It isn't all-consuming but it still fractures something in Lucifer and he curls in on himself, unhinged laughter ringing the halls of Heaven. If he doesn't laugh he'll sob and while he may be the only angelic being in the whole of existence—no one able to find him in this sorry state—he won't, he won't give into that. He's better than any of them. 

He leaves Heaven before it gnaws away at the remnants of his sanity. 

It's weeks of the same routine and it's only when he's dropped Ruth off—having left Brazil for now and moving to Peru—and some idiotic arachne pisses him off by entering into his space that the old muscle-memory of a snap comes to him and there isn't _much_ , the bindings still a shudder and a shriek, but he _feels_ his power try and flare, a _push_ when there had previously been _absence_. 

The arachne flees but it doesn't even matter to Lucifer. They've made _progress_ and he feels a stretch of his wings that wasn't there before, that he hadn't thought to look in on because he _knew_ he'd only be angry if there had been no change. 

And fine, he may not be able to kill anyone at will, but that doesn't, ultimately, matter. There are... possibilities to now consider. 

It leaves Lucifer quite nearly _gleeful_. There's perhaps some more fortification to be done first, but then Lucifer can—

A door slams in his mind and he's alert, turning, disoriented. Lima's Circle moves around him without much notice for his inattentiveness. 

Even Lucifer doesn't _really_ understand why he can so easily pick up on the state of Dean Winchester's soul. He could toss a plethora of theories in a hat and pick one and decide to go with that on any given day. He's blamed his Father, something to do with Dean's prayer and Lucifer's resurrection. He's blamed the Winchester for being the only remainder of a past that Lucifer remembers. He's blamed Michael, and whatever taint and mark he left behind on the soul. 

Point is: Lucifer always, generally, has an idea about the state on Dean's soul and where, loosely, he's located. He gets in a nasty fight? That usually, mildly, starts to fluctuate. 

_Mildly_.

Not completely, suddenly, _winking out of existence_. 

And—no. There is still the _barest_ flicker of soul. But narrowing it _down_... He swears and flies from Peru to the penthouse, not nearly close enough to wherever Dean had been last, but it'll help him get his bearings just a bit further. Southwest. Lucifer knows that much. He closes his eyes and turns about the room, letting his mind act as a compass, that flicker at the very _least_ not getting any _weaker_. 

There.

Lucifer flies. 

He expects to intercept combat immediately on arrival. That has been the norm. Instead, there's an eerie stillness to the warehouse floor, the werewolf pack scattered back, hunched and fearful, but not because of Lucifer— _no_ , there's a partially-transformed dragon squaring off with, if Lucifer remembers correctly, the Southwest Pack's leader. 

Alright then. 

He glances over his shoulder to Dean, strung up and unconscious, a needle in his neck and a rig of various tubing that Lucifer doesn't comprehend. 

“Kuehner,” Lucifer calls out, “not to interrupt—but care to enlighten me what is going on?” 

Her head slithers around, black scales littering her entire right side, wing bones cracking and rolling from her shoulders, membrane gnarled and mantling wickedly around her. One incandescent eye watches Lucifer. Lips pull back around finely-pointed teeth. “Someone's broken our authority,” she croons. 

Camille adjusts her stance. “We're doing the Circle a favor!”

Kuehner's head swivels back to her. “This isn't about the Circle,” she drawls. “We made our orders clear. The vessel... is under the protection of dragons. This is _our_ authority that you disobeyed. And your pack? _They_ know what's right.” 

Red veins heat along her left side, disorienting the air around her. She takes one step towards Camille. “ _They_ informed me of your transgressions.” As Camille falters, Kuehner lunges, overheated talons streaking forward and puncturing her chest. Lucifer watches as the werewolf is thrown across the floor, Kuehner's voice echoing, “It seems like a good time to me for someone else to take claim over this pack,” before he turns to Dean. 

He flicks a finger at the needle, frowning in contemplation before something— _someone_ —draws his eye and he's flying the short distance to grab for the fleeing djinn. “ _Oh_ ,” Lucifer hums, “now I understand.” He slips his angel blade into his palm, stroking fingers along its surface as he cocks his head and observes the djinn, grin slowly growing. 

“Wait, I can pull him out of it!” the djinn begs. “Camille, she—”

“Don't care,” Lucifer lulls, pressing into the djinn and sliding his angel blade in tight. “Don't need you,” he says. 

“I didn't—I didn't want this,” the djinn says as Lucifer stabs him twice more before letting go. 

Lucifer looks down at him. “Then you shouldn't have done it,” he tells him darkly. He laughs, high-pitched, “I mean! It's as simple as that, right?” He looks over his shoulder where Kuehner has, evidently, created a fighting pit out of this pack. Well. That's fine. 

He walks back 'round to Dean, toying the tip of his blade at the tubing, gaze tracing the steady trickle of his blood. “I hate poison,” he tells Dean's immobile form. He sighs, tilting his head back, wondering if perhaps dragons have some kind of neutralizing agents that he's unaware about. He feels like he's going to catch something from doing this. He grimaces before reaching out with his free hand and touches it to the side of Dean's face, gagging at the simple _feel_ of the djinn's magic as he siphons it off, shaking his hand out when he's done as though he's been burned. 

“Disgusting,” he mutters, then reaches out once more to nudge just the faintest of _adrenaline_ towards Dean, causing him to gasp and lurch, mouth gaping, breathing irregular, before he slumps, eyes rolling unfocused. “Eugh.” 

One smooth cut from his blade and he severs the ropes holding Dean aloft, only last second deciding to stop him from crumpling to the ground. “I think you've managed a new record, Winchester,” Lucifer tells him, making a face. “Over a month without getting into a fight.”

“Got into a couple,” Dean slurs, “without you needing to get involved.” He sinks towards the floor in spite of Lucifer's half-assed grip.

“Oh?” Lucifer says, readjusting his hold. “Color me impressed.” 

“You miss me?” Dean coughs. 

“I could very much do without this,” Lucifer says. 

Dean hiccups around laughter and then falls silent and Lucifer thinks he's passed out again until there's an ear-piercing howl of victory and Dean slaps a hand over an ear. “The fuck,” he moans. 

“New leadership was just chosen, it seems.” 

“Oh goody,” and there's a little more coherence finding its way into his voice, “wish they could've done that _before_ their leader sicced a djinn on me.”

“ _Well_ , Kuehner made excellent motivation.”

“Wh—Kuehner?” 

“I don't think the dragons like their hoard being tampered with.” 

“I'm not—”

“You might as well be,” Lucifer argues. He says, louder, calling out, “Kuehner the djinn's dead. I trust you'll take care of anything else that may come to fruition?”

When she turns, both halves of her body are now scales, her usual braids of hair formed into spines crowning her head, smoke and liquid fire dribbling from around her teeth. “All under control,” she purrs, and throws something small and black Lucifer's way.

“Right,” Lucifer says, clicking his tongue, bending down to grab what he guesses to be Dean's phone and shoving it into Dean's weak grip. 

He doesn't know when he's last seen a fully-transformed dragon, let alone this very-far along stage that she had taken on in her fury. He'd be fascinated to stick around, but with Camille and the djinn dead, he thinks her fireworks are done. 

He hoists Dean up and flies once more to the penthouse, dropping Dean on the couch.

“We need to talk when you're no longer...” Lucifer waves a hand at him, even though Dean just burrows face-first into a cushion. “ _This_ ,” Lucifer finishes, like it's explanation enough. 

Dean makes some muffled sound that Lucifer doubts translates into anything useful. His soul is still that sliver of near-nothingness and Lucifer doesn't think there's anything else he can do to jumpstart it other than allowing the Winchester to _rest_. 

“I'll be back in a few days,” he says, and then leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28 and 29 by design were meant to be “timeskip” chapters. A lot happening at once with a large passage of time.


	30. 30

**30**

Friday, October 9, 2319

Dean should be dead right now. Dean should have died a _lot_ of times, sure, but this? He's _lucky_. He's so fucking lucky that it makes him sick.

Had it been any other monster to screw with Dean, he'd be a goner. The djinn's bullshit used to put him under muted Jack's power—it had taken days for Dean to even start to feel its song again—and so when Lucifer healed him, it must have been weak enough that Lucifer didn't _find_ it. 

That terrifies Dean. He's been so careful, to have that control torn away from him is almost more than he can handle. 

(He thinks, had Lucifer not stripped him of the poison, he wouldn't have willingly woken up this time. He would have stayed in that illusory world and said forget everything. Even just the fading memories of that _happy_ life are a knife dug into his gut, a reminder that no, Dean, you really are still trapped in this nightmare; that's not changing.)

He goes over his phone, listening to a voicemail from Kuehner checking in on him from a day ago, and a voicemail from Garth saying that the two packs are now in agreement. He texts Kuehner. 

>>thanks for the save  
>>You're welcome. Have you recovered?  
>>maybe, I guess. will be back to the meetings monday.  
>>Stay safe, Dean.

He remembers—he thinks? Lucifer saying something about a hoard. He'd wondered how far “protection of dragons” went and seeing Kuehner so far through her transformation, thankfully without the potential size increase, gave him a damn good idea. 

Dean had heavy hitters vying for his survival and he knows Lucifer is only doing it because he needs Dean, but the dragons are another story entirely. 

He's rifling through his fridge trying to remember what week it was for his groceries when Lucifer arrives, and he fumbles with the scraped-together sandwich mix in surprise.

Speak of the—

Right. 

Didn't Lucifer say something about showing back up in a few days? Dean thinks that was over a week ago at this point. 

“Your sense of time is rotten,” Dean mutters, dropping the packaging on the island, grabbing a plate and bread, and primarily ignoring Lucifer as he sets in to make himself a sandwich. 

“I didn't feel like peeling you off the floor,” Lucifer answers. “Waiting seemed reasonable.”

If Dean had been face planted on the floor, the only thing waiting would have resulted in would be a dead Dean Winchester. Though he thinks Lucifer would have found him before it got that bad. 

“Uh huh. I have a bedroom now, did you have to leave me on the couch? I couldn't move for days.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't get into trouble.”

Ugh. Dean slaps the top piece of bread over his sandwich and takes a large bite, saying over his mouthful, “You wanted something?”

Lucifer stares at him with disdain.

Dean only grins. 

“How long ago was my brother killed?” Lucifer asks, and it's the first time he's brought up his brother since he found him missing from the Cage. 

Dean frowns. He hadn't known what to expect when Lucifer said they had to talk, but this wouldn't have even made his Top 50 Guesses. 

“I don't know,” Dean shrugs. “The last century, maybe? Why?”

“Up our forces,” Lucifer muses aloud. “It's an easier distance to travel to.”

“Since when have you been able to time travel?”

“Since last week,” Lucifer bites out. “I think. I haven't exactly _tested_ it yet.” 

“Oh.” He expected it to be longer. Lucifer hiding information on him again. “You think he'd even... help us?” As though there was even an “us” to consider. 

“Potentially. If nothing else, his presence alone would help fuel Heaven. Don't need all those souls crashing down to Earth.”

Dean reels. “Is that _going_ to happen? Didn't you think, maybe, that—”

“I've kept the _lights on_ ,” Lucifer grouses. “Anything more isn't worth it.” 

“Great. Whatever. Go have fun swimming through time.”

Lucifer gives him a dull look. “I need to pinpoint a time to 'swim' through.”

“How the hell are you supposed to do that?” 

Lucifer points at him. “Your mind. It has the information I need.”

Dean remembers the invasion of the djinn pushing his mind into slumber and that same mind starts to spin out, the remainder of his sandwich thumping to his plate. “Fuck no!” he yells, backing up. 

Lucifer sighs loudly. “Dean.”

Dean paces in a circle. “I don't want you in my head!” Even just on _principle_ he doesn't want the devil in his head, not to mention the problem of Dean's new constant melody humming with his soul. Could he even _hide_ that? If he put all his focus into it, maybe... 

Lucifer smacks his lips and glances away. “And _I_ can't exactly do this trip multiple times. There is _no_ reason for me to do the jump and find out that the warding is still too strong. Or worse, I'm _too late_ and he's already gone.”

“Yeah? And what if you leave me brain dead, huh?”

“Really. You think _I_ don't have the surgical skill to wiggle around in your noggin?” He huffs. “I won't _break_ anything, Dean. Well. Nothing that's not already broken.”

“Yeah, because you didn't break anything in Sammy!”

“Oh,” Lucifer feigns a shiver. “ _Nostalgia_.”

“Forget this.” Dean storms away for his room.

“Do you want to be responsible for the death of your brother?” Lucifer calls calmly to him.

Dean stops abruptly. 

“I know you care little for Michael—but _Adam_ , you abandoned him, didn't you? You're really not going to do everything in your power to save him from being tortured? Are you _that_ ashamed to face him?”

Dean's shaking with rage. Or maybe it's guilt. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “ _Fine_.”

“You may want to sit down for this.”

Dean _may want_ to do anything that makes this more difficult for Lucifer, but he also doesn't want to be brain dead, so a plan fueled by spite is _probably_ a bad idea. 

“I'm finishing my dinner first, _thanks_ ,” he tells Lucifer, glaring at the devil the entire time and putting the effort he needs into stifling Jack's song, locking that power as far away from him as he can so there's no spark, no flame. Nothing matters more than making sure Lucifer doesn't know it's there, even if Dean can _feel_ his own body react harshly against its sudden separation. He has to do this. 

He dumps his plate in the sink and then grabs a chair from the kitchen table and spins it about, sitting down with more force than is necessary and crossing his arms. 

Lucifer crouches in front of him. “Now, Dean, I need you to think _really hard_ on when you _last_ saw Michael.” His expression goes flat. “Don't think I want to see this, either.”

“ _You_ tortured Michael, right?” Dean hisses as he closes his eyes and shudders and— _dammit_ he doesn't _want_ to do this. 

“That was different,” Lucifer says calmly.

“Why?” Dean demands. He's certain his box will hold. That it will be enough. That the mind dive will keep Lucifer distracted. “Because it was _you_ doing it?”

“Of course,” is his simple reply. 

Dean snorts. He leans forward, dropping his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands, anxiety and terror welling up inside him as he lets himself walk through his own mind, following the catalog of screams.

“Hey, can an angel's true form burn someone's eyes out in their memories?”

“I... don't know,” Lucifer answers after a moment, a very faint sound of alarm underlying the words.

“Awesome, cool,” Dean bites out. He scrapes nails into skin. Sucks down a gulp of air. Swears, breath hitching. “I—found it.”

“Hold onto that,” Lucifer tells him, and reaches out, a hand on either side of Dean's head.


	31. 31

**31**

Friday, October 9, 2319

Blinding radiance fills the memory and Dean is already shielding himself to it when Lucifer finds himself staring at the true form of his brother, hole-punched grace, chips in his wings, none of which was damage that Lucifer had caused to him in the Cage. He'd done a lot, but he rarely left lasting damage to Michael in this way. 

He drops his gaze from the bound archangel to the human in the middle, Adam writhing from a constant torrent of agony, and the source that familiar, _wrong_ version of his brother, fury and disgust in the lines of his vessel: Dean Winchester. 

“Ignore the memory itself,” Lucifer says, even as his mind strays to his Michael and his pleas a melody twining with the sound-piercing ring of his form interacting with his surroundings. 

Michael never begged in the Cage. Michael _doesn't_ beg. Not for anything. Except, apparently, his vessel. There's desperation. Longing. _Wrath_ , so reminiscent of their Father. 

“Take your own advice, Lucifer!” Dean yells across the room. 

Lucifer jerks, distracted. His hands outside of this mentalscape nearly slip. He tries to pull himself away, seek out what he's looking for—he just needs a _year_. Not even the exact date. But he can't concentrate. 

He draws blood from Dean before he thrusts them from this memory, pushing _back_ , rewinding the track and it isn't as far as he'd like—the two Michaels squaring off, blasts scarring the walls, windows shattering—and rewinds further even as Dean lurches, tremors running through him. 

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Dean rasps, sprawled out in a corner of the memory, blood trickling from an ear, “I can't keep _fucking doing this_.”

Lucifer stares at him, unseeing, then dismisses him. The penthouse is unmarred, no sign of the second Michael yet. There's a djinn in the room with him, eyes glowing, head listing to the side, and he's reporting that his mother snuffed out the assembly of renegade humans—no survivors. 

Dean moans, head thumping to the wall and the memory shorts, a blip, before stabilizing. 

Lucifer paces the room and finds what he's looking for in the kitchen on the island, picking up the top page as though from a newspaper. It's obvious it isn't written by humans; it features statistics about who has been killed for treason, what countries and cities have “come around” recently and embraced Michael's holy gifts. It's sickening garbage, but there _is_ a date right on top and Lucifer swipes a finger over it in pleasure, just as the djinn goes to leave and explodes with the entry door and power ripples inside. Monday, September 1, 2220.

“Oh, _there_ you are,” rumbles the memory Michael, looking bored, “I thought I felt you crawl out of your hole.”

The memory breaks. Lucifer pulls away from Dean, sagging against the floor, blood on his hands and Dean slumping into his chair, mouth hanging open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back.

Hell. 

Lucifer tries to move but even his wings feel heavy, and maybe he was in Dean's mind longer than he thought. Before he can lever himself up, Dean's back arches and he wheezes loudly, muscles taut and then he pitches forward, coughing up blood, shuddering, but overall looking strangely better—certainly better than Lucifer.

“You,” Dean chokes, “can go fuck yourself.” He staggers to his feet and wobbles towards the bathroom. “You better have gotten what you wanted, because I'm _NOT_ doing that again!” He slams the door behind him. 

Lucifer thinks he has a good several minutes before the Winchester will come out, and allows himself to collapse to the floor, wings sprawled out around him, a groan on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no, it's fine, Dean, Lucifer doesn't want to do that again, either.


	32. 32

**32**

Friday, October 9, 2319

Dean strips out of his bloodied shirt, throwing it in a corner of the bathroom as he turns the sink on to hot, splashing it against his face and over his head, fingers slicking through sticky blood in his hair.

Fucking Lucifer. It's _so funny_ that he keeps saving Dean from getting murdered and _yet_ almost kills Dean himself. He thinks if it wasn't for his box around Jack's power shattering and flooding through him, he'd be dead. 

He cards his fingers through more of his hair and lets out an angry yell, turning off the sink and sliding the glass door of the shower open to turn _that_ on, stripping out of the rest of his clothes before getting in. 

Water hits his head and he hisses at the stings. What did Lucifer _do_? Claw Dean's scalp off? 

Lucifer had _said_ he didn't want to see the memories either, but Dean had scoffed and didn't believe him. Except Lucifer wouldn't focus, staring ahead like he was in a trance, and while Dean _tried_ to find the clues they were looking for, his body—mind?—didn't react kindly to his own presence. He was only there to keep the memory powered.

Because that's the only stupid use for Dean Winchester—people's batteries. 

When he towels off and redresses, bloodied shirt and all, he's relieved to find Lucifer gone. He doesn't _think_ the devil already went to try and retrieve his brother. Even if Dean's pissed at him, he'd like to _know_ when that happens. It's just _a tad_ important. 

He sighs, stepping through the living room, towel slung around his neck, and kicking at the chair he'd been slumped in, only pausing when he spots blood on the floor that he doesn't think was from him. 

He whips his towel off him and drops it on the floor atop the blood.

He'll deal with it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Part I. I'll start posting Part II next week prob, unless there's a night between now and next Wed where work doesn't murder me.


	33. PART II: 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I'm done editing  
> also me: if I had a dime for every time I've said that... 
> 
> Anyway, work was Tolerable enough the last few days that I was able to get Part II up as drafts. You definitely won't see me again with Part III though until this week is over. February will always be awful, regardless of covid apparently, for hotels in ski towns. But I wanted to get Michael and Adam into the fray.

****

### PART II

****

> I'm not a savior  
>  I ain't no traitor  
>  They're the ones who lied to you  
>  Is this the end?  
>  End of an era  
>  Spent too long living in fear?  
>  My darkest days have come  
>  And pulled me under  
>  I want my moment in the sun  
>  Should I spell it out for you?  
>  No one here is, no one is bulletproof  
>  [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYU3_Gp5KGA&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=13) Spell It Out by You Me at Six

**33**

Monday, September 28, 2020

Adam had learned very early on that some days were just going to always be worse than others. 

It was obvious when something drastic had changed outside of their sphere of Hell, Michael curling in on himself, grace fluctuating erratically, shaking and heaving and Adam doesn't know what to do. This hadn't been like Lucifer—though Adam doesn't _remember_ a lot of the time with Lucifer, but even as detached as Michael kept Adam's soul from his grace, Adam always knew when Michael was hurting. 

_“Michael, please! You have to tell me what I can do!”_ Adam shouts and shouts but the archangel continues to convulse for what feels like hours and then he stops moving. 

_“Michael?”_

Michael's grace is still present. Adam has to fight to take control of his body for the first time since they had been cast away and left forgotten in the Cage.

_“Michael, I can't do this alone.”_

He stares around the Cage but he can't understand what had knocked Michael out. 

_“No, no, no...”_

It is years before there is the barest twitch to grace. Adam doesn't even noticed. He successfully accessed a reservoir of _Michael_ and blanketed it over his soul to block out the screams of Hell and he just... lost himself. 

_“… Adam?”_

_“Adam.”_

_“Adam!”_

Adam wonders if he'd finally lost his mind. But then there is another him crouched opposite, eyes panicked in a way that he's never seen before and he frowns, blurry-eyed and confused.

“Michael...?”

Michael hangs his head and breathes a shaky sigh of relief. _“Thank God.”_

Adam continues to stare, uncomprehending. “Michael, I thought you were dead.”

 _“There was...”_ Michael trails off, looking away, at a loss for words. _“I'm sorry. I never would have left you like that on purpose.”_ He flounders with more to say, an explanation, but the panic is still there, clearer than anything, and Adam reaches out with a hand and his soul and grasps Michael's grace, squeezing comfortingly.

“It's okay,” he says, “I'm here. I've got you.”

And it's reminiscent to a time long ago, when Lucifer was still in the Cage and they were two entities finally unable to ignore each other if they were going to stay unbreakable. 

Now, Adam is _still in control_ and something is _very wrong_ but Adam can feel every synapse that is _Michael_ ; they're interwoven more than Adam thought possible. 

_“There's...”_ Michael tries again before he flinches and for one terrible moment Adam thinks he's going to lose him again and he envelopes Michael's grace entirely with his soul, desperate to hold the archangel together. 

Michael's crying, he realizes. 

_“There's another me,”_ Michael gets out, a weak whisper. 

Adam goes very, very still. “... What?” 

_“I felt him arrive.”_ He's laughing, but it's a miserable sound, a shredded song. Michael grabs at his head and he's trembling and Adam is terrified. _“Worse... I felt the impossible. I felt him resonate with my sword.”_

“Dean,” Adam says, hushed. “Can you... can you still feel them?”

 _“No,”_ Michael says. _“I think that's why I... woke up. But I know he's out there. It's like an... itch. That..._ energy _of his it's_ wrong _it doesn't fit right in this world and he's not—”_

“Michael. Michael... just... pay attention to me. Not him. Focus on _my_ breathing, okay? It's going to be fine. They— _they'll_ sort it out. Just. Just stay with me.”

Adam had learned very early on that some days were just going to always be worse than others. 

It _isn't_ fine. 

A single century planetside translates to twelve millennia in Hell. Adam holds down the fort. He's gotten used to blocking out the screams in Hell until even those change, sad cries and pleading for help and then just complete, desolate, _silence_. 

After their first century in Hell, Michael has more good days than bad. The itch of _other_ and _wrong_ become a part of him, only sometimes it vanishes without a trace for long stretches. At first they had hope, but it kept returning every time.

It was too long before he remained a fixed presence, a blight to the planet. His Michael said that even in Hell, Earth felt unwell. He'd lie against Adam, listless, wings disordered. He mostly slept, to Adam's relief, until that other became such a white noise of constant pain that it was almost _normal_. 

He talks to Michael, always. Adam's stopped thinking that there would be an end to this, his only soothing words that they're together, and that hasn't changed for thousands of years and it's not going to change now. 

Adam manages to slip soul and will from the Cage proper in a trickle—not ever removing his body from the four walls, but listing them to the Cage's viewing cell, the distant dismal expanse of Hell greeting them but... it's a change, he thinks, that they both need. 

Michael shifts sometimes, murmuring replies, trying to keep his part of the conversation going, often losing sentences halfway. He's always responding, never starting on his own, and then one day he's alert, like he's been struck by lightning, his gaze filled with the fire that Adam realizes how much he's _missed_. 

“Michael?”

_“The Cage... it's... I can feel out of its edges.”_

“What does that mean?”

_“It's starting to weaken. If I was... maybe if I was stronger I could even break it, but...”_

Adam strokes a hand through grace. “We can't afford you hurting yourself. We've waited this long, we'll be fine waiting longer.”

And Michael sags, and Michael sleeps. 

And maybe it's minutes, maybe it's a day, maybe it's a year, but then Adam blinks and across from the bars are eyes of burning coals and it's Adam's turn to feel like the one who's been struck. His breathing stops. 

_“Michael,”_ Adam says, and it's jarring enough to both of them because Adam always speaks aloud these days, _“I know you're not doing so hot right now but we kind of have a situation.”_

Adam gets to his feet and tries to take on a posture that speaks more Michael than him. 

Michael's stirring, but it's slow, sluggish, and normally Adam would give him all the time he needs, but this can't wait.

_“Michael. Lucifer is here.”_

All Adam needed to say was Lucifer's name. The responding flare of grace is a rise of power coming to life within Adam, so quick that it's unbalancing and Adam loses control of his body for the first time in forever and it's a messy hand-off but Adam forgives him.

“Lucifer,” Michael snarls. 

“Hey, bro,” Lucifer says calmly, hands in his pockets. “You're not looking the best there.”

“ _You're_ not looking much better yourself.”

Lucifer shrugs. “Time travel. Gets to any of us.”

Michael jolts and Adam is side by side with him as he reassesses the situation—and then Adam sees it, too, the cluster of neurons all firing off around Lucifer, giving off signals that are far, _far_ out of range of what is normal. 

“Why come from the future?” Michael demands. “Here to kill me once and for all?”

Lucifer huffs a mild laugh. “No, the current 'You' in charge saw to that rather thoroughly. I'm here to... change that.”

Michael almost collapses from the very reminder and Adam grabs partial control of their body just to keep them from appearing weak in front of Lucifer. 

“Why should I believe you?” Michael asks, and it's rougher than he'd prefer, but Lucifer doesn't seem to notice—or perhaps he simply doesn't care. 

Lucifer purses his lips. “You don't have to, sure. But as I'm aware, it was pretty nasty.” He tsks. “You've grown attached to your host; do you really need to go through having him tortured before you're killed?”

Michael's gaze is deadly. “Do not,” he _growls_ , “lay a hand on Adam.”

Lucifer drags his hands from his pockets, waving them in defense. “Not me! Look, I came here after all that. You lose, Mikey. You're out of practice and he's got Dean Winchester—come on, you know that's no contest. Future, though? Other You's currently MIA, donno if he's dead or not.” He shrugs. “Dad resurrected me, alright? I'm just trying to put the planet back together, and the Winchester's only fractionally helpful post-vessel.”

_“Michael...”_

“Why would _you_ want to fix the planet?”

Lucifer rotates his wrists and they watch as ethereal chains link them together. “Planet's got me on a limit until Daddy Dearest is back to some of his former glory.”

“Always about power for you,” Michael says.

Lucifer drops his hands to his sides. “It means you know what you're getting into. The Cage's warding is close to falling. Even if you don't confront your other self, he will find you, and he will wreck Adam. You come back with me, your vessel gets a chance to breathe. You don't have a lot of options, brother.”

 _“But Michael, if he's lying...”_ Adam starts.

 _“If he's_ not _,”_ Michael argues, his grace vibrating. _“That other me has done enough damage to us just by simply existing in this world. Adam, I can't—if he goes after you...”_ Michael breaks off. _“Regardless whether or not Lucifer is lying, we know he's still here, now, and he will try to kill us both.”_

Adam sighs, frustrated. _“And if there's_ any _chance at all he's_ not _in the future...”_

_“… We have to take it.”_

“Fine,” Michael answers, and there's a little of Adam there, too, their divide a thing of the past. “Can you get rid of the remainder of the warding? I do _not_ want to wait here with you.”

“Aww, not even a bit of nostalgia for our old times here?” 

“ _Lucifer_ ,” they say, eyes aglow. 

Lucifer tosses up his hands. “ _So_ impatient. And all the effort we put in to get as _close_ to the right time as possible.” Lucifer makes a face, his expression going distant. “But _all right_. This will still take some time.”


	34. 34

**34**

Monday, October 12, 2319

Dean's never thought he'd be happy to see _this_ Michael appear in the entryway. He's less happy to see Lucifer slump besides the door and Michael set his sights on Dean, storming across the room, eyes alight in anger and Dean hurries to his feet off the couch, backing away, and—

Michael draws up short and Dean stares, panting, at the chains that could be a matched set to Lucifer's. 

Michael, eyes still glowing, looks them over then up at Dean with a snarl on his lips, “First you abandon my host, _then_ you let that other me _exist_ , and _now_ you _dare_ to restrain me?” 

“Whoa—hey, okay, that last one isn't my fault,” Dean argues as though it makes anything else better.

“He's right,” Lucifer says from behind them, still using the wall as support. “I was curious if it was _just_ me as the _favorite_ son, but no, that's shining proof.”

Michael whirls on Lucifer for _that_ remark. Dean swears, knocking his head back and groaning. “Yes, I get it, we all hate each other, but can we _not_ do this? I don't wanna clean up blood!” 

Michael looks back to Dean and when his eyes flicker this time, his body slumps, the chains vanishing, and he just looks _tired_. “Dean,” and there's a tremble to his voice that may as well have slapped Dean.

“Adam,” he whispers in reply.

Adam shrugs a shoulder. “I-It's going to take him a bit,” Adam says, glancing briefly at Lucifer. “It's going to take me a bit, too.”

“I-I get that. Adam, look—”

“Save it,” Adam says, a shake of his head. “It's better you guys left me there,” he continues, and there's a touch of bitterness, twined together with sincerity. “That other Michael...” Adam breathes. “He's not here.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, wanting to press further about the Cage, but he can't if Adam refuses. 

“Michael could feel him,” Lucifer reasons. 

“Yeah,” Adam agrees. “It was...” He trails off, eyes narrowed at Lucifer. “We knew, always. Sometimes it seemed to go away, but that feeling always came back. We don't sense him now.”

Dean sways and he has to steady himself from the sheer relief that almost knocks him over. “He's _gone_.” 

“You said it 'always came back,'” Lucifer says. “Do you know why?”

It's Michael that straightens and rolls his eyes at his brother. “Yes, Lucifer, I am _fully_ aware of everything that happened outside of _your_ Cage!” 

“It was just a question no need to get testy,” Lucifer mocks. 

“He was jumping worlds,” Dean says, voice distant. “He was destroying all of—” He stops and stares at Michael. 

“Oh, _do_ tell him,” Lucifer begs, “all of our Father's _delicious_ lies.”

“Dude, seriously, again I'm _trying_ to avoid blood.”

“Mm, too bad,” Lucifer says, finally moving away from his spot against the wall. There's a streak of blood trickling down where he'd been leaning, pooling along the floor. 

Dean whips around when Lucifer walks by him, staring at the matching bloodstain. “What the _hell_ ,” he demands. 

“Time travel,” Lucifer sings. 

“You're an archangel!”

“Yes, and had I not been, I'd be hacking up my vessel's lungs instead of a few... short-lasting injuries.”

Dean swears. 

“ _What_ ,” Michael starts threateningly, “'lies' are you referring to.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head, “no, no, no, I do _not_ want to be responsible for this. Lucifer,” he says, turning. Stares. “Fuck.” He's dumbstruck. “Did he really—”

“Yes, it would appear he _left_ ,” Michael says. 

The sonuvabitch. What a coward! “I'm not having this conversation with you. Adam, maybe. But not you, not without backup.” Lucifer's shitty backup, but he'd take the brunt of the heat for it just by the simple nature of being himself. 

He expects a fight. Michael's been gunning for it since Lucifer brought him here. Absent was God's stoic soldier; left behind was someone who didn't take well to being out of their cage, shaky and feral, ready to bite any hand that comes near them. 

Dean can kind of relate to that. 

But Michael just _leaves_ and Dean isn't expecting that to _hurt_. It shouldn't. He cares nothing for any version of Michael and he clearly means nothing to Adam—and who can blame the kid. 

This was supposed to be a win, he thinks. But it doesn't feel very much like one. He stares at Lucifer's drying blood on the wall. Pulls out his phone and scrolls under his Favorites and dials. 

“Hey, you free for lunch? I need to... not be here.”


	35. 35

**35**

Monday, October 12, 2319

Dean meets up with Ligthart at Hitomi Plaza's entrance before they head out, and he's blissfully happy Ligthart keeps silent until they get to where they were going. There's a few places in relatively-close walking distance that, unfortunately for the locals, they have a habit of frequenting, though the regulars don't outright leave anymore when they see him. 

“You're still you?” Ligthart says to him over the square corner table, shoved so far back in the restaurant that any patrons coming in can't see the face of their least-favorite person. With it getting cooler again, Dean _could_ hide away in his hoodie disguise, but that chafes with the Circle's plan to normalize his presence. “You never willingly want to go out _anywhere_ in public.”

“Bad day,” Dean says, pushing food around his plate.

“You typically have bad days, kid.”

“Yeah, well, this should've been a _decent_ day. Can't even get one of those.” He wonders where Michael and Adam even _went_. If Michael went to Heaven and stranded Adam somewhere, alone. Dean doesn't know a lot about their relationship except for how Michael begged for Adam's torture to stop, fresh in his mind from Lucifer's jaunt through his head.

He shuts his eyes and slouches in his seat.

At least Adam can blend in with the populace, unlike Dean. That should count for something. 

“We got another archangel. The...” he lowers his voice, “Michael that belongs to this world. From the past.”

“Didn't take kindly to being here?” 

“I'm not sure who he hates more right now, me or Lucifer.” 

“ _Ouch_.”

“Yeah. I just really hope he doesn't see all the monsters here and starts in on mass murder,” Dean sighs. He grabs his phone and texts Garth to keep an eye out. “I didn't get to tell him anything, he just winged off.”

“Well then, let's _hope_ he doesn't become a problem. No one needs that, humans or monsters.” Ligthart groans, putting a hand to his head. “And you don't have any way to contact him?”

“I could pray, but he ain't gonna listen.”

Lunch with Ligthart doesn't leave Dean feeling much better other than having someone share in his suffering, which is... honestly enough right now. When he comes home, he's startled to find that Lucifer's blood is gone.


	36. 36

**36**

Monday, October 12, 2319

_“How's Heaven?”_

_“Appalling. It's so dark. And all these souls are—it's like they're in stasis.”_

Adam's walking down a street, hands in his pockets, when he freezes. 

Michael may only be connected to him by the slimmest of tethers, but he still takes notice. _“Your mother is fine,”_ he comforts hastily. _“I checked on her first. The individual Heavens up until that other me took over were unaffected. It's everything_ after _... I don't know what to do.”_

Adam continues walking a little easier. He smiles at people as he passes them, but no one makes eye contact. The way of the city is very much get to where you're going, do your work, don't be noticed. Michael had said after they left Dean that the planet felt sick as it had in the past, but it was trying to get better. … He also said that he thought his sense of _anything_ was terribly off because it also felt like the planet was _crawling_ with monstrous life, something that would only result in devastation.

So long under the stifling presence of his other self, it had to be clouding his head. 

_“What about the angels?”_

_“They're all gone. It's only Lucifer and myself.”_

_“And I'm sure he's contributing a whole lot.”_

_“His... willpower is here. I'm not sure he realizes he's even done that much. It would have been complete darkness up here had he not.”_

_“Huh. Probably best not to tell him.”_

_“I don't plan on it. Lord knows what he's_ actually _up to.”_

_“... Speaking of...”_

They both remember the strange argument Dean and Lucifer had, something about God. They wouldn't trust half the things that came from Lucifer, but the other half were truths that he knew would hurt more than any lie. And Dean... _“He was genuinely scared to tell you,”_ Adam says. 

A woman smiles back at him. Adam stumbles, turning, watching her continue down the street without the haste of everyone else.

He almost follows her, but he shakes his head. He doesn't need to freak anyone out just because he's nosy and trying to get his bearings. He needs to get a change of clothes, but he doubts he has enough money. He isn't even sure what they use for currency. He doesn't even know what year it is exactly, not really. He understood a bit of the Hell-to-Earth conversion time but eventually what was the _point_ of keeping count?

But the world... it is indeed _different_ since they went to Hell, only Adam expected it to be unrecognizable. It isn't. It feels like he's walking through a hazy memory. 

He just... he needs more information, and no one had appeared willing to break from their routine to offer an outsider assistance. 

_“I'm sorry,”_ Michael says, _“I shouldn't have left without us getting more from Dean.”_

_“You had a right to be upset, Michael.”_

Silence, and then, _“Do you want to go back?”_

_“No? But I should. We need to know more, and I'd also like having somewhere to stay”_

_“I am done up here for now if you wish me to return; I merely wanted to know your mother was safe.”_

Adam smiles. _“Yeah. I know you're going to have work to do if you're going to try and get Heaven operational again but—it feels... hollower without you down here. I know your grace is still... partially connected but I'm just not used to you being elsewhere.”_

_“I understand. It's certainly disconcerting in Heaven.”_

Adam feels all his strain vanish when Michael fully rejoins with him. They're never going to be _disconnected_ they realized, not even if someone tried to banish Michael from him. There will always be a meeting of soul and grace permanently blended from their time in the Cage and Adam desperately clinging to Michael's grace in an effort to not lose him again to the weight of that other him. 

_“Don't take us directly inside,”_ Adam says, _“we should knock.”_

Michael chuckles and he _wants_ to just fly to the middle of the room, but he follows Adam's suggestion, taking them to the door outside the penthouse and ceding control once more to Adam.

Adam reaches up a fist and raps his knuckles against the door. A few minutes pass. Adam's not even sure Dean would be home. He's not even sure Dean _lives_ here. He knocks again, louder, and this time the door opens and Dean is frowning at him as clarity sinks in.

“Adam.”

“How'd you know it was me?” Adam asks cheerily. 

Dean makes a face. “Like Michael would ever knock.”

“Yeah. You got that right. … Can I come in?” 

“Uh... yeah. Sure. I got a thing...” he looks back somewhere over his shoulder, “in like, an hour, but yeah.” He steps back so that Adam can enter and closes the door behind him. “What's up...? I didn't think I'd see you again.”

“Well,” Adam ducks his head sheepishly, “I realized I know absolutely nothing about the state of the world, and there's not exactly guidebooks. Or... maybe there are but I don't have money.” He pats down his jacket. “And we went to Hell in this. So...”

Dean winces, even as he tries to turn away to hide it. “I probably have something that could fit you. I'm... fine on the money-front, too. If you just want that. As for a guidebook...” Dean blows out a breath. “Michael hasn't killed anyone, has he?”

Adam looks startled. “No? Why would he?”

Dean's shoulders relax. “That's good. I'm sure I would've heard about it but I just... that would've been a whole new mess of problems.” He flops down onto one of the couches and gestures across from him, waiting until Adam takes a seat before continuing, directly making eye contact. “Look. The planet's run by monsters.”

“... What?” Adam asks. He feels Michael stand at attention. 

“Michael—ah, the other one—juiced up a whole army of monsters, centering in this city, with a blood-grace cocktail that _also_ gave him control over all of them. Their orders were to infect, and it spread, planetwide. The humans left were under monster subjugation. He forces the planet to grind to a halt. Little change, just more the same. Eventually the only humans alive are the ones born under monster rule. 

“Lucifer's resurrected, Michael's expelled, myself and the monsters wake up. Monsters band together and decide to _not_ execute the human race. Work at keeping the peace and try to protect them while figuring out how to manage the world post-Michael. Don't get me wrong, I still expect someone to snap—but it has been months, and this is worldwide. You can check yourself, but Lucifer found it hilarious, so I don't think he was lying about it.” 

“Michael had _thought_ he sensed monsters everywhere, but figured his ability to detect anything was... off.”

“Nope. He was right. The Kansas City group meets three days a week. That's what I got tonight. I've been going for awhile. It's not really my speed but I like knowing what's happening and Lucifer despises going.” 

“Dean... how did... how did this even _happen_?”

Dean looks away. His fingers curl into fists. “I fucked up, okay? I—I used him to kill Lucifer but he kept control, released me once, and stole back control permanently.”

“You killed Lucifer and now you're working with him.”

Dean slaps his thighs and stands up quickly, pacing away from the couch. “It's not like I asked God to resurrect _him_! I'm not even—we're not working together! The only thing he even _needs_ me for, really, is to act as a God Battery!” He puts a hand to his head and sighs heavily. “I don't even know what he was hoping Michael would do. 'Up our forces' he said like... like he'd thought _they_ would work together. And keep Heaven from crashing down.” 

“Michael isn't going to let Heaven fall,” Adam says. 

“Why does he even _care_ about it?” Dean asks. “There's no angels up there!” 

“My mother is up there,” Adam answers.

“Oh,” Dean whispers, looking lost. 

Adam hangs his head. Michael has been quiet and he can't blame him. “What's the goal here, Dean?”

Dean shrugs helplessly. “Get enough power to make the jump back the last three centuries and... try to stop all _this_ from happening. We've been trying to push faith back towards God. It's... not easy. We've done only enough so that Lucifer had enough power to retrieve you but that was... fairly recent, comparatively. It's mostly been monsters in support; humans have been digging their heels in. They're scared.”

“I... see,” Adam says, even though he is very confused.

“Yeah, I know, it sucks, okay?” He starts towards his room. “Let me find you a change of clothes for the moment. You can stay the night if you want... I don't really have a guestroom, just an office full of a bunch of desks and way too much shit, but... I don't know of any place in town you can go. It's... not something I've had to think about.”

“Can I re-purpose the office?” he asks.

Dean stops. He looks for a minute like he doesn't know what to say. “You'd... want to stay here?”

No, Adam thinks. Not really. “There's something to be said for familiarity,” he admits. “I could move in somewhere else, but I don't want to scare anyone when I wake up with memories of Hell.” He smiles weakly at Dean. “But you'd understand that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “There's... a lot of notes and resources in the office from...” he pauses, struggling, “Apocalypse Michael. Maybe you guys can figure out if any of them are worth anything?” 

“We could do that,” Adam agrees, though Michael doesn't weigh in, which is worrying. He focuses inwards when Dean goes to search for a change of clothes, finding Michael lost among their thoughts. _“What's wrong?”_

_“You wouldn't have nightmares if I'd been able to stay afloat.”_

_“Michael. We took care of each other.”_

_“I took care of you for a century._ You _took care of_ me _for dozens of millennia. It's not the same.”_

Adam reaches out to take Michael's hands in his own. _“It's not a competition, Michael.”_

 _“No, of course.”_ Michael sighs. _“I don't wish you to feel trapped here; you've been trapped enough, Adam.”_

_“It won't be like that, Michael. And I don't intend to stay here forever, just to give us time to get our feet back under us and find some direction.”_

_“You don't_ have _to invest anything into this planet.”_

 _“Yes, I do.”_ Adam smiles. _“I know you're already feeling better in this time, but the planet itself is still impacting you. I don't want that.”_

He looks up when Dean drops a pile of clothes in his lap. “Thanks.”

“There's a few things there that you can try. When I'm out I can see about getting you a phone. I don't imagine Michael will use it if he's anything like Lucifer—no offense—but you might want one.”

Adam's eyes flash and he imagines Dean is seconds away from saying he _really didn't mean anything by it_ when Michael asks, “He allowed communication to still be operational? I can understand things like electricity and water if he still intended humankind to keep moving like a machine—but he allowed people to talk long distance?”

“Oh, no, he definitely ripped that out of everyone's hands and smashed it to pieces. Internet, phones, television. Any network. Phones are just the only thing starting to come back into play. It's a _Monster_ Provider.” Michael just stares at Dean, and Dean sighs. “Monsters have been repairing towers and the like.”

“Why? _How_?”

“Because they need it? And most of the monsters that Apocalypse Michael turned in the beginning are still alive. So that's. You know. Electricians and shit. Specialists.”

“And they are 'fixing' things.”

“ _Yeah_ , Michael, they are. Look, do you want me to get Adam a phone or not?”

“Yes,” Michael answers at last, sounding frustrated. “I still wish to know what you and Lucifer would not tell me.”

Dean bristles. 

_“Maybe you should have waited after I moved in,”_ Adam suggests.

_“No. I want to know if I have to kill him before we do.”_

“ _Look_ , just let me tell Adam—”

“No, Dean,” Michael interrupts, standing to face him, the clothes still in his hands, “you will tell me.”

There's a conflict of emotions crossing Dean's face rapidly, and Michael watches, waiting, beginning to frown when Dean continues to stare at nothing for longer than seems right. 

“He—this world and that? They weren't the only ones,” Dean says at last. “I don't know how many God created, or his exact reasoning for why. Apocalypse Michael destroyed them. All of them.”

_“Michael?”_

“I wonder if that's why, just like you and your brother, my Father abandoned us to the Cage. Because his _attention_ was on other worlds. Other Michaels.”

“We didn't—” Michael's sharp, narrowed-eye look is enough to stop Dean from talking. Instead, he says, “You'd know your Father better than I would.”

“ _Would_ I?” Michael says, more to himself, and he feels Adam put a hand to his shoulder. “For once I'm curious of my brother's opinion.” 

“Well, the only way I reliably see him is if he wants something or I'm being stabbed a lot.”

Michael raises a brow. “Really.”

“He seems to think by being 'the Righteous Man' that I'm fueling God more than most people, so it'd be trouble if I died, and apparently he doesn't think I can take care of myself.”

Michael grunts. 

“Don't tell him I told you, but he was really pissed when he found out you were killed,” Dean says. “Like, if it weren't for the bindings, I think he would have leveled this entire building.” He looks away when Michael's face shutters into blankness, instead moving off the rug and bending down to pull back a corner. 

His open relief is palpable. 

“What is it?” 

“... Your wings had been burned into the floor here when you were killed.” He looks up at Michael. “They're gone now.” 

Michael's relief mirrors Dean's, and even Adam slumps, throwing his arms around Michael, laughing. 

Dean straightens again. “Okay, I gotta head out to my meeting. I'd invite you two, but it's better another time. If you want to fly a bed in for Adam, there's a place at 3084 Oak Street where I got mine. Just be careful about doing any angely-shit around humans—at the very _least_ don't let them know your name. I'll talk with the Circle and they'll start spreading word to the monsters in the city that you're here and you're not the same Michael. There's money in that pile of clothes. Try not to make a scene.”

He looks like he wants to say more to them, but changes his mind and takes his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate calling him Apocalypse Michael but I also hate nicknames for either Michael so this is the best I got. I _did_ enjoy just calling him Apochael in my notes. I still sometimes refer to him just as Michael in the rest of the story but I think (hope) the context keeps it from being confusing.
> 
> Also I don't like swearing in summaries which is why that little bit is different.


	37. 37

**37**

Monday, October 12, 2319

Lucifer is at the entrance of Howl at the Moon when Dean arrives, leaning with his arms crossed, eyes closed, looking like he's paying zero mind to his surroundings, but Dean knows better. 

He still completely ignores the devil as he walks in, and when Lucifer peels in behind him, Dean knows that he was waiting for him to show up.

“Whatever you want, I don't care,” Dean tells him without turning around. “You left me to deal with your brother. Who does that? I would have thought you'd want to see his reaction, but no, you _ran away_.” Dean looks around for Ligthart or Kuehner, but he doesn't see either of them. Dean beat them here. _Well_. He did want to get away from Michael, so maybe he's a bit of a hypocrite, but he's hardly letting Lucifer know. He claims one of the tables near the bar and is annoyed when Lucifer sits across from him. 

“I did not 'run away,' I merely decided to show my brother mercy; he would not want me present when you broke the news to him.”

“Bullshit,” Dean argues. “Why're you even here? You never come to these.” _Anymore_ , Dean thinks, unsure. He's not certain if Lucifer had gone at all before Dean elected to attend. 

“Someone has to explain my brother's presence in the city and I, frankly, don't trust you to be the one to do it.”

“I was going to handle it,” Dean growls. “ _I'm_ the one that's been talking to him.”

“Oh? He willingly had a conversation with you? Adam must really wanted to avoid you.”

Dean slaps a palm to the table, angry, before leaving his chair and leaning over the bar to pour himself a drink. He's seen others do it, and anyway, no one is here to cause a fuss. Against his better judgment, he reclaims his seat. Lucifer would have just followed him if he moved, anyway, but he blissfully stays quiet as Dean drinks. 

“Adam's going to room with me. Hell if I know why. Convenience, I guess. Michael's gonna work on Heaven so that Adam's mom's soul doesn't plummet to Earth.” Which Dean thinks is... weirdly important, and a lot to take in. “I told them about the multiple worlds and how they're all destroyed and how Michael should be careful about humans realizing who he is.”

It was the longest conversation, Dean thinks, that he's had with _any_ Michael. He'd thought it was going to get him killed, and Lucifer's tendency to show up when Dean's in a fight is creepy at best, but he's not so sure the archangel would show up if Dean was in a fight with _Michael_. 

He swallows. Sways in his chair. Still remembers Cas and Apocalypse Michael talking, like an afterthought imprinted in Dean's soul, churning up later when he screamed and thrashed against the hold on his soul as Cas died. The _'nothing but failed drafts'_ and _'he doesn't care'_ and _'I just want to burn every one of his little worlds until I catch up to the old man.'_

Somewhere along the way, he changed the plan for that last part. Dean doesn't remember why. Doesn't think he wants to. Remembering anything that Michael had done always leaves Dean worse off. 

“Look at _you_ , I suppose I _could_ have left this meeting to you.”

“Shut up. Just because I can't hold my own in a fight as well as I used to, doesn't make me incompetent. And anyway, Ligthart already knows we got Michael here.”

Lucifer's look of surprise pleases Dean _far_ too much.

“You told him?” Lucifer asks.

“Yeah. Michael took off almost as soon as you did. I didn't know if I'd ever see either of them again, or if Michael was going to start offing monsters in the street. I had to give _someone_ a heads up.”

Later, Dean is glad that Lucifer hung around because when the question came up if _this_ Michael could take control of the grace-enhanced monsters, Dean didn't know what to say. 

“The two Michaels may nearly be the same, but their grace is equally changed by their experiences. It may only be a microscopic difference, but it's still enough. He would not be able to use the juice in all of _you_ ,” he gestures to the room, “to take control again. From my brother we also know that the Apocalypse Michael is not on this planet; he will be able to sense if that changes which, as far as I know, none of the rest of you can do.”

Dean realizes he's not even surprised that Lucifer is laying down all the cards to keep Michael _safe_. To keep the monsters from deciding Michael is too much of a risk to keep around, and it sounds more genuine than his bid for them to keep their hands off Dean, too. 

Sometimes, when Dean looks, he can see some of the reason behind why him and Sammy existed to be the perfect vessels for Michael and Lucifer. If he ignores everything else and leaves the most simple behind: they are brothers. 

The rest of the meeting continues without issue. Dean thinks there was more debate in regards to his life than Michael's, and he gets _why_ , it just leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth.


	38. 38

**38**

Sunday, October 18, 2319

There's a person standing in the middle of traffic. Dean watches them, waiting for them to move, but they never do. He swears and puts himself out there, coming up around them. “Hey, what do you think you're doing? It's not safe here.”

They tilt their head and look at him, confused. Not a human, then. 

“Our Lord Lucifer said we would not like what has become of the surface; we wanted to see for ourselves.”

Dean feels his stomach drop. He licks his lips. “'We?'”

They tilt their head, eyes going solid black. “My brothers and sisters.”

“And Lucifer?”

The eyes clear. “Our Father Who Art Thou in Hell, savior of us all.” They look away. “He is wise. I _don't_ like it up here.”

Before Dean can react, smoke pours out of their mouth in a pillar, serpentine into the air. The body left behind drops, Dean just barely grabbing them and hangs his head in relief when they're still breathing. 

Fuck.


	39. 39

**39**

Monday, October 19, 2319

Dean never prays—not after he woke up. 

He never bothers contacting Lucifer because as he told Adam: _'they aren't working together.'_ They were just thrust into this, developing mutual goals—or _close_ to mutual goals, Dean thought. Enough. It's not like he _trusted_ Lucifer. _No one_ he's spoken to trusted Lucifer. 

He goes into the basement of Hitomi Plaza. Most of the lighting still works, only because Apocalypse Michael would have been assured that his building was in proper working condition, always. 

He almost changes his mind, almost goes back up, but he remembers black eyes and the whispered _'Lord Lucifer'_ and he just—he's _angry_ , stupidly. So fucking stupidly. 

He bows his head and closes his eyes, “Lucifer,” he says, with purpose, with the will to back it. He curls his lips in towards his teeth, head twitching to one side. “I know you're busy with Operation Prophet Drop, but I need a moment of your 'precious' time.”

He opens his eyes, glancing around cautiously, and then wings buffet the air and Lucifer is there, walking one foot before the other across the concrete, hands on his hips. 

“I _am_ busy, but I can't say the last time anyone's prayed to _me_ —without all the ritualistic fuss,” he says, sounding intrigued. He stares up at the piping of their surroundings, frowning. “Curiosity works in your favor, Dean Winchester.” He tilts his head, gaze locked to Dean. “What do you want?”

“What's with Hell getting up in arms, roaming around, and singing your praises, huh?” Dean demands. “I thought you were going to keep them contained?”

“I never said that,” Lucifer answers darkly, approaching Dean slowly. “I said I'd keep them from noticing the shift. They don't know about monsters guarding humanity; they just know Michael is gone, and I'm in charge.”

“So you're raising an army,” Dean spits in his face.

Angry, Lucifer claps a palm into Dean's chest and hoists him into a concrete slab, teeth grit. “Michael is putting order to Heaven—and you can't have _balance_ without Hell rising up as well. I've done what's necessary for this rock; I hardly want to associate with the worms that are my so-called children, _my legacy_ , but someone's got to do it and better _me_ than something that crawls out of that dredge!” 

His expression twists, then, distracted, like he's hearing something. His eyes narrow in confusion and he refocuses on Dean as the source. “What...”

Panic grips Dean anew and he should have known better, than to antagonize the devil. He'd gotten... complacent.

Lucifer releases him and slams a fist to either side of Dean's head, his eyes flaring as he searches Dean for what's making him _tick_. His lips draw back in a snarl. “ _What_ is _this_ ,” he growls, low.

“L-Lucifer,” Dean starts, but he doesn't know what to say, and maybe Lucifer hasn't _realized_ what he's looking at; Dean can't afford to give him any answers. 

“I know that song,” Lucifer says, voice cracking. He's shaking. “What did you _do_.”

Dean tries to speak but nothing comes out. “I-I didn't know,” he says.

Lucifer drops his head and stands back, and there's a static alive at his feet, a rumble of very distant thunder, a significant drop in the room's temperature. When he looks back up, his hand raises and whatever he tries to do, while twitching past the restraints of his bindings, causes something in Dean to _burst_ and a current ripples out of him, sending Lucifer skidding across the floor.

Dean collapses, startled from the sudden exhaustion, which is great, because _now_ Lucifer is going to kill him.

But Lucifer is regaining his footing and the static is gone and he's just shaking his head at Dean, expression tight in... _grief_. 

“He's dead,” Lucifer whispers, “why do you have it?”

Dean thumps against the wall, legs sprawled out before him. “I—Michael stole it before he killed him,” Dean answers at last. “I guess it stayed with me after he was cast out. It's still trying to regenerate. Even when Michael—Michael,” Dean closes his eyes, remembering Jack again, “when Michael took it, it was so tiny.” He opens his eyes again and stares at Lucifer. “Please. Please don't take it from me.”

Lucifer could break the remainder of his chains if he did, Dean thinks. What else matters after that?

Lucifer sneers and drops his head forward. “You'll make a good incubator for it.” He straightens to full. Laughs. “I think I'll _pass_ on receiving anymore prayers from you.”

He leaves.


	40. 40

**40**

Monday, October 19, 2319

“You look miserable, what happened to you?” Adam asks him.

“I pissed off Lucifer.”

Adam sits up from his sprawl of the couch, worried. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Dean flops down on his front on the opposite couch. “So you and Michael know, Lucifer's working on Hell.”

Adam frowns. “That's not really a surprise though, is it?”

Dean turns his head, pillowed on his arms, to look at Adam. “I don't know. I figured he wouldn't want to go back after being trapped there for so long. Would you?”

“No, but I wasn't the de facto King of Hell and Father of Demons.”

Dean wouldn't call Lucifer a very proud parent. “He used some excuse that if Michael's rebuilding Heaven, Hell has to balance it.”

Adam tilts his head, eyes skirting to the side, then back to Dean. “Michael thinks it's flimsy, and not the real reason Lucifer's doing it, but he's... not completely wrong.”

“But I don't think they were ever in balance before?”

Adam takes longer to respond this time, and Dean knows he must be engaged in conversation. “There were... different factors though,” Adam says. “God, the Darkness. Humans, monsters. Lesser gods, the planet. All of that is thrown now.”

“It's stupid,” Dean grumbles, burying his head.

Adam laughs. “Yeah, it really is. Michael says Heaven's been impossible to work through though, so I'm guessing Hell is the same, if worse.”

“If Lucifer raises an army, it'll be a problem far down the road, you mean,” Dean muffles. “The demon I met said that Lucifer told them that they wouldn't like the surface and they agreed before smoking out. So I guess there's that.”

“I don't know how long Hell was silent for,” Adam says. 

Dean sits up. “What do you mean?”

“It just... it went from the 'regular' screams, to cries for help, to complete silence. It freaked me out more than the screams.”

“Apocalypse Michael had control of the Reapers so it's anyone's guess how much he messed with the Natural Order of where souls went.”

Adam locks up for a few moments then drops his head, groaning. “You just made Michael's day so much worse.”

“Wait—is he _in_ Heaven? Right now?”

“Yes.”

“And he's still—talking to you?”

“Yes,” Adam says again.

“I thought... how's that even _work_?”

Adam snorts. “If there was a complete separation of our beings he wouldn't be able to. But! In our case.” He leans back and points to himself. “I'm always a little angel as he's always a little human.”

“Adam. What the fuck.”

Adam laughs, hand to his forehead. 

“Seriously, Adam?”

“Don't worry about it, Dean,” Adam answers, still laughing. 

“Wait, but,” Dean starts, “Lucifer just _goes_ to Hell, and presumably Heaven. But you can't go with Michael?”

“That would go very badly for me,” Adam says. “The Problem With Souls. It's not like Lucifer has that concern. He could drag that body around anywhere he pleases.” 

Dean nods, frowning, trying to remember if Apocalypse Michael ever dragged _Dean_ to places he very much shouldn't have gone, and it... freaks him out a bit that he can't remember. 

“I did a walk through town earlier,” Adam says, changing the topic from himself. “I'm getting good at telling monster from human without Michael's help; they're the only ones that will smile back at me in the streets. But everyone wasn't as much in a constant _rush_. It was like people were finally considering they might be able to _be_ someone. Learn some individuality. The monsters I saw were encouraging that. Trying to get people to open up, talk to them, slow down. It's so strange.”

“Isn't it? I'm kind of jealous. I can't 'experience' it myself, but I know it's happening. There's a vamp that patrols near here, Priya. She got mad at me once for disturbing 'her' humans and I thought it was dumb at the time, but I've seen her show real care towards them. I feel like I'm just along for their ride.”

It doesn't bother him as much as it used to. It doesn't bother him as much as it _should_.

“Adam, you wanna come to the Circle meeting? I think you'd get along with some of them, and you have insight that I can't provide.”

Adam winces. “Michael will definitely also be attending,” he says. 

“That's fine. I told you they ruled in his favor. And they've had Lucifer there before.”

“Cool. I'm going to shower then.”

Dean nods, waving him off. “I'll order some delivery. Should be here by the time you get out.” 

(It's made Dean freakishly happy that in recent weeks the Circle had started distributing phones to humans, starting with businesses, and teaching them how to work the devices. It meant that Dean had other options for food.) 

He makes sure to also text Ligthart and Kuehner that he's bringing Adam (and Michael) to the meeting tonight.

Michael's rejoined with Adam by the time food is laid out on the island and they're in their respective seats. 

“How _did_ you 'piss Lucifer off?'” he asks, taking control. 

Dean makes a face. He'd hoped they'd just brush it off and assume it had something to do with Hell. 

“There's a whole lot of reasons I pissed him off,” Dean says, shoving several french fries in his mouth to avoid answering right away. He tries not to think of the way Lucifer _looked_ at him when he showed up and how twisted an expression it was when he left. 

_'I can't say the last time anyone's prayed to_ me _.'_

Dean's hardly going to apologize. But he thinks even if he was dying he wouldn't pray to Lucifer again, not after the... _hatred_ that Lucifer looked at him with. He doesn't think he's seen that expression on Lucifer since he was wearing Vince Vincente. 

“Lucifer had a son,” he finally starts. He doesn't look up from his meal. He doesn't want to see Michael's reactions. “Through circumstance, me, Sam, and Cas raised him. He was a _good kid_. But a bunch of shitty things happened, a lot related to Apocalypse World. Lucifer... I don't know. Tried to get close to him, tried to trick him. Ultimately, things go wrong, Lucifer steals Jack's—his son's—power.”

He skips over the entirety of how Apocalypse Michael even got back to their world. He tells himself it's because it's too complicated.

“It's _why_ I said 'yes.' Lucifer was too strong, he wanted to reshape the world, everything, I don't know. I kill Lucifer, Michael keeps me. Fast forward, Michael takes over, slowly kills everyone I love, but leaves Jack alive. He waits until Jack's regrown his grace before killing him. Fast forward again, Michael's expelled... Jack's power stays with me. It's... only started to regenerate, again—I think it got torn apart when Michael was forced out—and I... was keeping Lucifer from finding out.”

“But he did.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. 

“I thought you said he didn't hurt you.”

“He _didn't_ ,” Dean says. “He didn't take it from me.”

Michael startles. “What? Why?”

Dean grimaces. He pushes the rest of his meal away from him. “Said I'd be a 'good incubator.'” He looks up at Michael finally.

“I... _suppose_ no one would expect you to have such power...”

“Wouldn't he be able to get rid of the bindings though?”

“No,” Michael answers. “It might even make things worse for him. Being _too_ powerful is what hinders us. Were we not archangels, we might be unbound.” He sighs. “Still... Tell us if he tries anything, Dean.”

“Okay.”

Dean sits back for most of the meeting like a watch dog, even if he knows Michael would be doing the same—but Dean knows these people. He thinks he could read an attack from one of them long before Michael could. Adam settles in though; he _recognizes_ some of the monsters, and Dean realizes that Adam's “walks” must have been much further throughout the city than Dean's traveled. 

Michael doesn't take control once as far as Dean can tell, but it isn't always easy to spot. The line between Adam and Michael blurs somewhere down the middle, and now that Dean knows it, he can _see_ how sometimes... sometimes it's just _both_ of them present.

Dean's interacted with a lot of angels—most have tried to kill him—but he's never seen anything like what they've become.


	41. 41

**41**

Tuesday, October 27, 2319

Dean hasn't been attacked by monsters since he started regularly attending Circle meetings and actually tried to _contribute_ to them. He still wanted to be _prepared_ when he went out, expecting anyone's opinion of him to change at the drop of a hat, but even then he doesn't imagine his legs being swept out and slamming down to the sidewalk. 

He looks up in time to see the head-splitting maws of three _Leviathans_.

Ligthart is going to be a _helluva_ surprised if Dean gets out of this alive. 

He scrambles, putting distance between them before using a trashcan to pull himself to his feet, grabbing his knife from the inside of his jacket and slicing clean through the first Leviathan that gets near him, black blood oozing, but the second is too close, too fast, and Dean's next cut only gets an arm. 

He swears, holding a hand out to try and keep the teeth and lashing tongue from him, failing to get the angle he needs for his knife.

There's screaming around him and some sick part of him thinks this is _great_ PR with the humans. “Lord Michael” getting the shit kicked out of him in public. 

He lets go of his hold on the Leviathan and ducks low when it staggers forward, loping a circle away and—his newly reformed friend knocks Dean's knife free, punching him into a lamppost. Dean yells out and draws inside his own depths and wrenches Jack's power from him to explode the Leviathan before it bites his head off. 

And then dizziness engulfs him, like he hasn't slept in a week, and he sags as the remaining Leviathan locks its arms around Dean's neck from the back and the third sneering at him with whoever's face they decided to steal.

Dean jolts and tries to break the arm lock that the Leviathan has him in. “Come on guys,” Dean's saying, “what about world peace, huh?”

Their partner says, “ _Michael_ hunted the rest of our kind. Monsters 'allowed' to 'live' on this planet, but not us. Perhaps, at the time, he did us a favor. We weren't his enslaved army. But now... we have so few numbers, and whose fault is that?”

Dean's too tired to fight. His limbs are numb. He doesn't know why he thought it'd be _easy_ to wield something so _alien_ to him.

And Lucifer's not coming, Dean chillingly realizes. He's finally pissed off the devil enough that Lucifer is done with him. Maybe he doesn't need Dean anymore. He's got his Michael; he's got Adam. Dean had thought he hadn't become _reliant_ on Lucifer's vigilance—he said enough times that Lucifer wasn't his keeper—but now all his mistakes are laughing at him in the face as that maw gapes once more. 

Two heads hit the ground in quick succession. Nothing to hold Dean up any longer, he grinds his knees into the sidewalk as he falls. The world's still blurry as he stares up, and for the first time, Dean looks to Lucifer with such open relief. “I didn't think...” he breathes, “thank you.” 

Lucifer startles. “... You're welcome,” he answers, sounding like the words don't fit right. He nudges a foot at one of the heads, making sure they haven't tried to reform. “How did you get _Leviathans_ on your scent?”

“Oh, you know,” Dean says as he slowly curls in on himself. “Revenge against Michael. He hunted the ones on Earth, they take it out on me. The usual, I guess.”

“What's wrong with you?” 

Lucifer's voice sounds like it's coming from a tank of water. “Made a mistake,” Dean says.

He feels the touch of a hand and then he's transported to the living room of the penthouse, his body quaking from the disorientation. 

He hears Lucifer say, not to him: “ _Do_ something about him, would you? Leviathans have been spotted; I have some bodies to properly dispose.” 

And then Lucifer is gone and moments later Adam is getting him to sit upright, asking him what's wrong, if Michael has to come back from Heaven. Dean just lists to the side until Adam sits besides him and props Dean against him. He doesn't know how long they sit like that, doesn't know why Adam even puts up with him like this, before that thrum of Jack's song finally, _finally_ restarts.

It's a little easier to breathe after that, and the room doesn't rock like he's on a boat. 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, jerking from Adam.

“It's fine,” Adam answers softly. “Are you okay?”

Dean presses the heel of a palm into his eye. “No,” he admits.

“Michael was explaining Leviathans to me while you were out.”

“They're a _fun_ bunch,” Dean says. “Ligthart wasn't aware that there were any around, because everyone knew they wouldn't play nice and be a team player. But I guess I can add them to the Hates Dean Winchester Group.”

“Lucifer got to you though?”

Dean nods. “I thought I was going to die,” he whispers. “Almost every other time... I probably could have made it. The muscle memory's there, I know it is. But this time...” He looks at Adam. It kills him saying this aloud, confessing _weakness_ to anyone, especially a brother. 

“You're still alive, Dean.”

“Should I be?” he asks. “I mean, really.”

“ _Dean_.”

“I've been awake since April. I hid for the first _month_. I've done jack-all to fix my mistakes. I still can barely go outside except to the Circle meetings. Anything else is—” He cuts himself off.

“Dean, you're allowed to be scared.”

“ _Fuck_. I don't want to be. I don't _want_ to be like this.”

Adam chuckles softly. “No one 'wants' to be scared, Dean. It doesn't work that way.”

“It should really start to.” 

“I don't know. Fear's what keeps us alive, right?”

Dean would argue that it's Jack's power that's keeping him alive whether he wants it to or not. Or it's Lucifer keeping him alive. Fear's a lot lower on the list. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah. Sure.”


	42. 42

**42**

Sunday, November 1, 2319

“Hey, Adam... you think Michael would be willing to do a flight for me?”

Adam blinks. “Uh. To where?”

“There's a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. Old Hunters' base. Sammy and I were holed up there for... awhile. I don't know if there's anything left, but if there's even _something_ to salvage... I gotta take it.”

Adam nods. “We can go in maybe an hour? Let him finish up what he's doing.”

“Yeah, cool. Sounds good.”

The bunker is... well. It's a mess. Dean didn't _expect_ it to be great, but maybe a little more care from the Hunters that likely raided it... could have been nice. He thinks if it's in this state though it means that no one is _living_ here which... is disappointing. If there was anyone fighting back, he'd think they'd be in a Men of Letters bunker. But Apocalypse Michael had been here, too. He knew exactly where it was. And if Dean starts to look more closely he sees smatterings of blood here and there.

This was somewhere that he kept an _eye_ on. Certainly never safe.

At least the bodies are gone. At least Michael cleans up after himself. Or maybe Hunters did it. Dean... really wishes, but he's not optimistic. 

Dean sighs and rubs a thumb at his forehead. “I'm going to check the armory. See if I can find our Leviathan-killing weapon. If you and Michael find anything of use, or looks interesting to him I guess, put it on the table. Books, spell components.”

“Dean,” Adam calls after him, “should you go through here alone?”

“Not really, no,” Dean answers, “but we'll clear more this way.”

This is the _last_ place Dean wants to be, but it's the _only_ place that he could find the bone weapon, and maybe he's just being paranoid. Maybe the Leviathans that attacked him were the last. 

He hasn't had any luck before now; why would it start here? 

The memories that follow languidly behind him in the halls for once aren't related to _Michael_. Instead, they're from a life that he doesn't think he has a right to remember anymore. There was the Dean from before he said 'yes' to an archangel out of desperation, and the Dean that came after. 

He doesn't know how they were supposed to be the same people. 

He goes to his room before he goes to the armory. His weapons are gone from the wall, but sorting through his drawers he still finds the fragile picture of his mom. He runs a finger over its surface, afraid to pocket it in case it wouldn't survive. 

He places it right back where he found it, relieved that Michael didn't strip _this_ from Dean. He made sure so _much_ would be taken from Dean if he ever were to lose control of his vessel, but this... it likely didn't even cross his mind. 

The closest he got to hearing his mother's voice last was her voicemail. _'This is Mary Winchester. You know the drill.'_ He was telling her that Jack had died. It was only supposed to be a few weeks. A _few weeks_ and he could have seen her again. 

“Sorry, Mom,” Dean whispers, breath hitching. “You wanted a world without monsters. Now the world needs monsters to survive.” 

He goes to the armory. 

It isn't as picked-clean as he predicted it to be, but by no means is there much. He loads up a duffle with a few different firearms, the Easter egg hunt of shells scattered round the room, and a few knives. 

None of them are the one knife he _wants_. 

(He knows he expected it to be gone, but he can't help the flash of disappointment.)

Adam's waiting for him when he gets back, a sizable spread over the wooden table. Dean forces a grin. “Cool. Looks good. Anything fun?”

“There are several books that caught Michael's interest.”

“Guy should develop some hobbies.” 

A fondness briefly passes over Adam's expression before he covers it up.

“Do you need anything else?”

“Nah. Didn't find what I was looking for, which is fine. Let's get out of here. Longer I'm here the more my head hurts.”

The more his heart hurts.


	43. 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOozrudtMPY&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=21) Reigns by Of Rust & Bone

**43**

Tuesday, November 3, 2319

Dean blinks at his phone a little worriedly even as he answers. “Garth, hey, what's up?” They text on occasion, but never really hold a phone conversation. Dean should... reach out more to Garth, but it's... it's hard. He thinks Garth allows him his space though, and he appreciates that more than he could ever express. 

“Would you believe it if I said I had a case?” Garth asks, bemused.

“What?” Dean pauses. “What is it?”

“Ghosts!”

Of course it's ghosts. He remembers what Billie said, and that was, what, three or four months ago? Depending how long it took her Reapers to settle back into work, the ghosts have had plenty of time to fester. 

“Dean?”

“Right, sorry, I'm here.”

“You in?” 

Dean swallows. Salt rounds had been in the inventory that he had picked up from the bunker, in case this very situation came up. 

“Where?”

“Greenleaf Apartments. Do you have a ride? I can borrow the car from Bess. I'd hate to have to make you walk.”

Dean checks around the penthouse. Adam's out, looks like. The closest thing he'd have to a ride is Michael, and he doubts the archangel would give him one for this kind of reason. 

“Yeah, I'd need a pickup. You have any supplies?” 

Garth makes a sound of mock offense. “Me? Be unprepared?” 

“Hey, I don't know about you, but I haven't been on a hunt in centuries.” He's just been ganged up on by more monsters than he'd like. 

This isn't the same, he tells himself. 

“I'll be there in 15,” Garth says. 

“Alright,” Dean agrees, and hangs up. 

He wonders, for a few more moments, just how stupid this is. But then, Garth probably doesn't even _need_ his help, juiced-up werewolf as he is. He's just trying to be nice. Get Dean _out_. Hell, maybe he would have preferred lunch but figured Dean would refuse him, as though Dean couldn't refuse anything that Garth asked him. 

He scribbles a _Ghost hunting –Dean_ note and tapes it to the fridge. 

This isn't the same. 

He breathes out and packs a medium duffle, one he had snagged from the bunker, and heads down once Garth tells him he's in the parking garage. Garth still looks fine. Looks normal. It's good, really. He deserves it. None of this guilt that he was holding onto when they saw each other face to face, and it's terrible, really, that it's been months. 

Dean's always been the shitty one of the brothers when it came to checking in on people, but maybe he should try harder. 

“So, an apartment building?” 

“Yeah. Cute little place, nicely situated. One of the people in my pack lived there before they were turned. He still checks in sometimes, you know? This past day he went over, said it was... really weird. Unpleasant. Communities are always kind of... listless. But they were just... curtains closed, peering through blinds, all held breaths and rushing past this one complex. Buddy went to try and get a better feel for it and didn't get far in, too—heh, spooked—but he mentioned how cold it got, and even with his heightened senses, he barely caught the flickers around him.”

“Flickers,” Dean repeats. “Plural. You think there's more than one?”

“Probably.”

“Great.”

Garth grins at him before turning his eyes back to the road. “We've got this.” 

Those words don't quite fall into the Famous Last Words category, but Dean would like to think they end up close. 

Greenleaf Apartments is made up of numerous brick buildings with a nice parking lot in the center of them all. Dean's gotten used to being in the heart of the city, where humans and monsters blend into the streets and are always on the move whether it be walking or driving. But this seemed... more distant from all that.

Dean didn't even have to worry about anyone slinking away from him at his very appearance. Every building was locked up tight, hushed and begging to not be noticed by the _vengeful_ aura permeating the middle-most building.

Garth had knocked on every other building door, but no one was talking. Dean stayed sunk in the car's passenger seat, waiting, mildly wondering if he could get anyone to speak to _him_. If their fear for Michael outweighed their fear of their neighbors. 

He immediately passed that thought by. 

“So,” Garth says when he comes back, sitting back in the car and folding his hands one atop the other over the steering wheel. “All sealed lips for the most part, no one's opening their doors. But, one kid whispered to me through an open window. She said 'don't let them get you, too.' So I think they've been going after their neighbors.”

“Someone mad about their neighbor's dog taking a dump on their lawn?” Dean mocks, and then realizes he hasn't _seen_ anyone with pets, and that leaves him with a hollowness. 

Garth laughs, but he doesn't comment, and Dean doesn't ask. 

They each grab a shotgun from the trunk and slip inside. 

Garth's “buddy” was right about the immediate feeling and his skin crawls, keeping his eyes peeled as they carefully move through the building, taking it one apartment at a time, room by room, until Dean thinks he hears jeering in one ear and he turns. 

Flickers. Plural. Definitely plural. 

“Okay. So. That's a lot of ghosts,” Dean says, after they've sequestered themselves into the living area of one of the units, salt lining the doorways and windows. 

“What do you think they're bound to?” Garth asks, yellowing eyes watching the in-and-out flicker of ghosts passing near their salt line.

“Good question,” Dean grumbles, beginning to sort through the bookshelves along the walls. He thinks he hears a growl and looks over his shoulder, but Garth seems just as focused as he is.

“Dean,” Garth says, pointing beyond the ghosts to the kitchen, where mixed with old cookbooks is a strange, very out of place book. 

“I mean yeah, why not, I'll give anything a try,” Dean says. “ _Hey_!” he bellows, acting as a distraction, standing at the edge of the salt line. “That's right! Look over here! You're really gonna tell me you're not somehow pissed at _me_?” 

One of the ghosts comes right up to him, gaze empty. “You're just the weapon,” they say. “Not even the cause.”

Wow, Dean thinks that's the “nicest” thing any human's said to him, dead or otherwise. 

“We wanted you dead,” another says, the ghosts moving towards Dean like he's singing a siren's song. 

“You killed us,” a third whisper, hands grasping for Dean, but not making purchase, like something is stopping them last second. “But who _told you_?” they howl. 

Dean pulls back. 

The voices get louder. “Who _sold us_ out?”

“Who _betrayed_ us?!”

“One of them!”

“ _One of them_!” 

“ _They_ deserve to die! They did this!” 

Their spirits flicker, fire licking at their feet. Dean looks through them to where Garth holds a lighter to a blood-soaked charter. They turn from Dean, but it's too late, their voices shrieking as they dissipate.

Garth looks down sadly at the ashes. 

“They were trying to fight back against Michael,” Dean murmurs.

“One of their neighbors sold them out,” Garth says. “They were trying to get anyone who might have done it.” 

“Michael was adamant about treason,” Dean says. “Anyone caught even _knowing_ about 'traitors' were killed as well.” 

“Guy had some real control issues.”

Dean smirks. “Tell me about it.”

“You okay?” Adam asks him later after Garth dropped him home.

“I really hate that question,” Dean decides. “It went fine. I don't think I'll make a habit of it though.” 

Adam grins. “That fun, huh?”

“Oodles. I should take you if there's a next time.”

“Yeah, I have no interest in Hunting,” Adam says.

“You know, me either,” Dean agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there's probably pets around, hidden, somewhere. Because that thought made me sad and I figured I should comment on it since I don't actually touch on it again.


	44. 44

**44**

Saturday, November 7, 2319

Dean takes _time_ picking the intricate lock, wondering if Michael had simply _spelled_ the double-doors closed. Dean doesn't _like_ locked doors, he's decided. Not in this building. Not when he doesn't remember what's behind those doors. 

_Click_. He grins and hops to his feet, throwing the doors open. 

His face falls. Solemnly, he steps into the smooth-lit room, rows and rows of precious pieces; elegant pottery, glass-blown vessels, chiseled sculptures. All neatly in their categories— _partitioned_ , Dean's mind whispers, and he digs his hands into his hair, body shaking uncontrollably. 

Michael was a _collector_. Dean's long-since familiar with it. The _weaponry_ lining the halls of the one floor, the favored objects in his penthouse, the— _trophies_ ; the word gouges into Dean and he's seeing hundreds of worlds overlaying each other, Michael sweeping through the ever-burning landscape, plucking something of interest from each.

His skin is boiling. He smells smoke and he can't breathe. Can't _see_. 

Dean lets loose a yell and it pulses through him— _out_ of him. He hears an explosion of sound—ceramic, glass, ivory shattering as the energy reverberates through the room. Feels slices along his body. 

There's no more smoke.

Dean's hands fall lax to his sides. He steps once and his shoe crunches. He takes in the destruction surrounding him before his vision tilts and he goes down, hard.


	45. 45

**45**

Saturday, November 7, 2319

“Wake _up_. Come on. Where's that Grade-A stubbornness?”

Dean shifts, then hisses in pain at the shards of glass stabbing him in the back.

“It hurts, _shocking_ , I know.”

Dean really can't deal with Lucifer right now.

“Are you just a bloodhound?” Dean asks, wincing. 

“Mmmm...” Lucifer drawls, sounding distant to Dean's ears, “ _no_. Not quite.”

“Dude, it's just _weird_ —you honing in on me.”

“Oh, you mean 'it's just weird' tracking the excessive energy in this building where neither me nor Michael had anything to do with? _That_ kind of weird?”

“I—”

“Wanted to, I don't know, redecorate?” Lucifer spreads his arms and gestures to his surroundings. “Decided you didn't like...” He reaches down and pulls out a ceramic sliver. “This _one_ particular piece?”

“It doesn't matter,” Dean says.

“No. No, of course not. Because this is just fine.” He rubs his hands together, crouches down, and slaps his knees. “Time for everyone's _favorite_ question,” Lucifer says, and he sounds frazzled, “are you _actually trying to kill yourself_?”

Against his better judgment, Dean sits up, palms tearing as he pulls himself away from Lucifer. “That's not what happened!” he yells, angry. 

“Right, right,” Lucifer says, looking down and nodding, like he's accepted the answer before his attention jerks back up and his eyes are a faint crimson, the bindings manifesting. “Then what _the Hell_ happened?”

Dean levers himself forward and uses the momentum to get back to his feet, swaying unsteadily but remaining upright. “I got angry, okay!” he yells back. “I got angry, and _distracted_ , and let him get to my head, alright?! I didn't mean for any of this—” He cuts himself off as he gets his first _real_ look around, and panic churns up within him; _nothing_ of the room is left standing. “Oh god.”

Lucifer, still crouched, presses his hand to his forehead. “You're going to kill _someone_ if not yourself,” he says, matter-of-fact. 

“I don't—what if I—” He lost control but... “I don't even remember it happening. I could flatten a street corner and you and Michael would _never know_.”

Lucifer pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “I have a hellhound on you,” he says after the long moment of Dean's panic swallowing him up.

Dean looks down at him. “... What?”

Lucifer reaches up with his other hand and snaps. Sitting stalwart nearby, billowing pools of black smoke hiding rippling muscle, vibrant red eyes laser-focused, is the hellhound.

“Uh...” is all Dean can say. He licks his lips. “U-Uh... you. You put a-a hellhound. On me.”

“Do you know how many times I've saved you?”

“I could have gotten out nearly all of those situations with enough _time_ and no interventions—”

“Six. Six times.” He snaps again and the hellhound is once more granted the cloak of invisibility. Dean only finds it more disconcerting. “This is Adaira. She is my eyes.”

Dean holds up a finger, still fighting for words, “How— _long_ exactly have you had a hellhound on me?”

Lucifer shrugs and answers, “Only after the Leviathans.”

“O...kay. That's. A lot to take in.”

“She's on 'non-interference,'” Lucifer explains, dropping his hand from his brow. “Reports to me.”

“Reports when I'm... in a predicament.”

“Would you prefer to be Leviathan chow?”

“... No.”

“Then deal with it and don't kill her. I'll just keep assigning them. But Adaira, she's good stock.”

“Fine. But I'm not gonna be happy about it.”

“Oh, I hardly expect you to be happy about _anything_.”

That stings, but Dean supposes he can see where Lucifer's coming from. He scuffs a foot at the debris around him. He didn't even get to feel the pleasure of destroying Michael's possessions. He takes a deep breath, and walks away. Lucifer doesn't even try to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adaira means “ford by the oak tree” in Scottish. (Also it was Adaira that growled in 43, not Garth, lol.)


	46. 46

**46**

Sunday, November 8, 2319

“Adam... is Michael... here?”

Adam frowns at him. “Yeah? Why, you need something?”

“I... I don't know if he can help, but the topic is a bit... raw for Lucifer,” Dean says uncomfortably. “It's about Jack's power.”

Adam nods and grace flickers and his muscles shift, the tell-tale different posture that Michael holds his vessel to. 

“Is this about yesterday?” Michael asks. 

“Yesterday didn't exactly help,” Dean answers with a halfhearted shrug. “But every time I've used it, accidental or last ditch, it always goes badly. Instantly exhausts me, hinders more than helps. And I-I know it's still barely much, but it feels _different_ than I'd expect it to, I guess. Definitely not, like, when I had an archangel possessing me. That was an inferno. Jack's—it's a forest fire.” He remembers Lucifer's words. “I'm going to hurt someone.”

He tries very hard _not_ to think about the hellhound. Adaira, whatever. There's a quiet, betraying part of him that is _relieved_ to have eyes on him. He's a timebomb, again. He's someone surprising him in the street so he snaps their neck but now he has an infernal Light to go along with that. 

“You're making the assumption that Jack was _fire_ ,” Michael says. “He's _Lucifer's_ son. Lucifer isn't an inferno; he's an icestorm. There's different things to consider.”

“But I've _seen_ Jack use it.”

“His innate, natural power. It belonged to him. You've adopted it. Cased it in a new shell. It won't behave the same way with you as it did for Jack.”

“I don't even necessarily want to _use_ it. I just don't want it to screw with me or the people around me.”

“Can you visualize it?”

Dean thinks on that, but shakes his head. “Not really, but I can hear it? If I focus on it, it sounds like a song, like some ambient instrumental crap.”

“Interesting,” Michael says, leaning back, folding his arms and humming to himself. “Adam never had much opportunity with my grace. There wasn't... time.”

“What, you mean before you guys—” Dean stops himself, barely, from making an obscene gesture. “Merged?” 

“Yes,” Michael says, drawing the word out, eyes narrowing.

Dean swallows. He thinks Michael is cutting him some slack though, and he'll take it. 

“To translate a _song_ into something concrete... That's...” Michael sighs, frowning, “a bit too abstract for my tastes. At our core, even Lucifer, is Light. So would be his son, and so would be what is now within you. But if you have _fire_ in your mind, that goes against its nature, and you won't form anything. Perhaps that's why you're so exhausted every time.”

Dean snorts. “Great, so I basically have to rewire my brain is what you're saying.”

“You wanted advice, did you not?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “It's not like I expected it to be easy. It'd probably even be _better_ for me if Lucifer _had_ taken it, but...” He drops his gaze. “I try to avoid going down the rabbit hole of memories. A lot with Jack are just a blur. But he was _always_ fighting on my behalf... and this is what I have left of him. I don't want to lose that.” 

“It isn't wrong for you to want things.”

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, unable to help the vehemence that rises up in him from just those... _kind_ words. Michael looks startled. Dean grits his teeth. “Sorry,” he grumbles, even if it's a bit of a lie. “Thanks. For the suggestion.” 

“... Of course.”


	47. 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOk6tvoFXfY&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=2) Half Empty But Happy by Askjell

**47**

Friday, November 20, 2319

>>Due to the weather, tonight's Circle meeting is canceled. 

Dean barks a laugh at the mass-text. He sends a separate reply to Ligthart. 

>>are dragons allergic to snow  
>>I will not dignify that with a response.  
>>but you just did ;) can't you and kuehner just flamethrower the streets ~~>''//\\\^^//\\\\----,

“I think Ligthart is mad at me,” Dean says as he throws himself down on the couch opposite of Adam.

“Why?”

“I sent him a dragon emote and he didn't reply to appreciate its likeness.”

Adam is silent for a long enough that Dean gets distracted by the snowfall outside, the absolute whiteness of the skyline. Frankly, he's glad the Circle meeting got canceled because he does _not_ have an appropriate... _anything_ for weather like this. 

“Michael says if you send an angel equivalent he's getting rid of my phone.”

Dean tilts his head to Adam and grins. “You guys are no fun. I bet if I could convince Lucifer to use a phone, _he'd_ appreciate it.” Adam's expression sours and Dean decides it delights him to see these brief shows of whoever isn't in control. 

“All the more reason not to,” Adam says. 

They sit before the comfort of the fire. Dean finds it eerily peaceful.

“It reminds me of Hell,” Adam murmurs. 

Dean squints. “You and I have very different memories of Hell.”

“I know,” Adam chuckles. “It's just... it's an absence of sound. An absence of... everything.”

He almost says he can't imagine it—not for as long as Adam was there for. But they have a calmness between them, and Dean knows if he edges anywhere close to an apology, Adam will just walk away. So he doesn't risk it, and stays quiet on the subject.

“I wonder how much parts of the world ever just... had to shut down,” Dean says. “He clearly kept a lot of industries functioning. But I guess snow plows didn't have to be a thing.” Dean shuts his eyes. “I wonder how much someone obsessed with control couldn't control the planet.” He remembers the feel of the planet changing hands from one archangel to the other. The global revolt. 

“Archangels can key into the weather,” Adam says. 

“Sure,” Dean agrees, rolling over to face Adam. He's encountered the weather react to Lucifer enough times now. “But like... could Michael stop this snow, if he really wanted?” 

Adam's quiet, distracted, and then he says, “If he weren't bound, maybe. But it's all about that balance, right? You upset the Natural Order, it's going to go top-heavy somewhere else.” 

“You stop a snowstorm one place, and an earthquake happens in another?”

Adam nods. “Apocalypse Michael may have been able to do... what he wanted. He held the Natural Order at gunpoint. He changed the universe's Laws. Maybe he _could_ control nature at just a whim. Because he felt like it.”

Dean shivers. 

“My Michael wouldn't,” Adam adds, quieter. “Even if he could do it, he wouldn't.”

Dean wonders if maybe before all this, even before Adam, if Michael would have. He doesn't want to ask—like the question is too intimate coming from him. He shifts again to lay on his back, and continues to watch the world vanish outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I think it looks more like a dragon than what the internet turned up for single-line emotes don't judge me


	48. 48

**48**

Sunday, November 22, 2319

Hell has a backbone that Lucifer can stand on. 

He has _support_ , anyway, if all his plans go up in flames. His Plan B, as much as he spits at Plan B. 

He's dragged the depths of the realm up around him like a cloak, a mantle that he can embody in spirit, no longer just a spare limb. 

(He doesn't want it. This version of the mantle is _weak_. He needs the glory of his old kingdom, the immeasurable will, and that's _impossible_ right now, in this corner of the timeline.) 

But it's fine. This is all he requires for now. The Absolute Minimum. 

He meets Ruth in a cool corner of Alaska, on schedule for her next pickup and transportation, but Lucifer has other plans. “I need somewhere I can leave you for awhile,” he says to her, “do you have a preference?” 

“Indore, India's Circle,” she answers, frowning. “Why?”

“If we're lucky, I won't see you again.”

“You're going to go back?” 

She's always known that was the goal; it was part of the reason she agreed to this world tour. If Lucifer could reset the world, well, her family would never be _born_ , but they also would never be _tortured_ and made to suffer because they were hiding the next-in-line prophet. 

“Yes,” he replies. He can feel the stretch of the universe, offered up in greeting. He doesn't have much range to his power in the _present_ , but going back? Beyond? 

He doesn't fully understand _why_ so many monsters are willingly going with the God Plan. He'd have figured even they would have preferred to put up with the planet's ailment instead of thrusting faith into a deity that sees them as lesser beings, but he won't argue the results. Ruth does good work with them, regardless. 

“Then, I hope I won't see you again, either.”

He leaves her in India, then takes extra time to center himself, even as his shackles snap and hiss at his wrists. He needs to pull in every scrap of power he can possibly muster if he's going to dare to take on the perverse version of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure how and why mantles became a thing here, but, well, they're here to stay now I guess \o_O/ ~~and follow me to other stories~~


	49. 49

**49**

Tuesday, November 24, 2319

“I know when we can best strike at Apocalypse Michael. He should be weak enough that he won't be able to notice right off that we're from the future.”

Adam, in a move he tries to avoid, wrests control from Michael. “You say 'we' but Michael _can't_ go,” he argues.

_“Adam—”_

_“No. I don't want him to know either, Michael, but this is_ too risky _for you.”_

“I'm sorry?” Lucifer asks lowly. 

Dean wedges himself into the couch cushion, looking to the world like he's running silent calculations about how much range the archangels now have with their bindings. Adam _knows_ they still can't kill anyone with just a snap, but he understands Dean's concern. 

Adam clenches his hands into fists and forces himself to keep eye contact with Lucifer even if he wants to run. Even if he wants to keep this _secret_ from the devil. He can feel Michael with him, a hand on his shoulder, but he isn't trying to stop Adam from talking. 

He can do this.

“We'll only be a liability,” Adam explains. “We can't exist in the same sphere as the other Michael. It's like an invasion of the senses.”

Lucifer is silent.

“Adam...” Dean starts. “He wouldn't be able to fight? At all?”

“No,” Adam murmurs, dropping his gaze. He mentally reaches out to Michael and reassures him that it isn't his fault. “Apocalypse Michael's presence alone debilitates him. Even in Hell we could feel it.”

“But I remember you two fighting him in the original timeline!” 

_“Maybe if I burned through all of my grace_ and _your soul to do so,”_ Michael thinks.

“Likely only as a suicide move,” Adam says. “With hopes of taking him down with us.”

Dean sinks impossibly deeper into the couch. “Why didn't you mention this _sooner_?” he asks.

“You didn't say the plan was to _confront him_ , you just said 'go back,'” Adam argues. 

“So I get to deal with it _alone_ ,” Lucifer snaps.

“I'm sorry,” Adam admits sincerely, looking back up, “but I won't _let_ Michael go with you, even if he wanted.” 

_“And I_ can _stop you,”_ Adam says to Michael.

 _“I know you can,”_ Michael agrees. He wouldn't think otherwise. 

Lucifer drops his face into his hands.

“What?” Dean says with a grin, “Don't think you're strong enough, Lucifer?”

“Don't make me hurt you, Winchester,” Lucifer growls. 

Dean laughs. “But really, when was there any point he was _weaker_? That would've been nice to know.”

“When we hopped worlds. He took it better than I did, but he was at full strength.”

Adam's eyes light up and Michael is staring at his brother uncertainly. “You were with him?” 

Lucifer winces and glances to Dean, who shrugs, picking at the armrest. “I didn't tell him,” Dean mutters.

“Ah. Well. This is awkward.”

“ _Lucifer_.”

Lucifer holds up his hands. “Yes, alright? I brought him here. He just killed Gabriel, he was going to kill me, I wasn't exactly going to get back to this world _alone_.” 

“Gabriel—”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick.

“Gabriel was trying to buy us time to get through the rift,” Dean adds, quiet.

Adam wraps his arms around him and he shudders and it always _hurts_ remembering that he and Lucifer are the only two left. 

“So,” Lucifer says into the silence, “I know where and when he is, and he won't expect an attack from me.”

“Take any advantage you can get,” Dean agrees.


	50. 50

**50**

Monday, September 28, 2020

The first thing Lucifer is _acutely_ aware of, accustomed to feeling them in his bones, is that his bindings are _gone_. It makes sense. It makes him _laugh_ , makes him wonder a plethora of _what ifs_ , a Plan C, perhaps. Lucifer's never been one for time travel. He's more of a hands-on, live-in-the-moment kind of guy. 

But there are _possibilities_ here that he didn't think about. Well. Not _here_ here. Two Lucifers in one time will not work for long. _But_ it might leave him an option open if this goes poorly, and his Plan B of re-purposing the future cosmos doesn't work as he intends.

The second thing Lucifer realizes is that he can sense that Jack's alive, and isn't that a blow he wasn't expecting. With Jack comes the realization that he can sense _Dean_ , but it's... harder to tell, in a way, than usual. Muted. He'd always been able to sense _Jack_. Put that alongside _soul_ and Lucifer thinks he, accidentally, must be keying into Dean's soul without the power ridealong. 

He knows the other Lucifer is out of range by now, and far-too weak to even recognize that there's another version of himself suddenly walking the same plane. He hopes, as he sidles up alongside Michael, that he's also in that same weakened state. “Oi, bro,” he hollers, stuffing his hands in pockets and trying to get a feel for that immense, immovable presence of his brother. 

He'd forgotten how much it _itched_. The wrongness of him. He'd thought at one point it had just been that other world entirely, but it followed along after they did the jump, and Lucifer's skin crawls. _This_ is corrosive. And, Lucifer recognizes, icy fingers wrapping around his vessel, it is so reminiscent to the feel of the planet's sickness, but it's more than that: it's a _corruption_. 

He had surmised it was just from their Father's extended absence that turned Earth. Oh, he's such an idiot. He should have understood where it had stemmed from, that first injection of disease that started its downward spiral. Michael, aren't you a naughty one.

“What are you doing back here, Lucifer?” Michael asks, unaware of his brother's inner turmoil. “Forget something?”

And, oh, Lucifer also forgot how much he hated this Michael, his memories watered down by the presence of his real brother. 

“Yeah, you know,” Lucifer says easily, “there's something I wanted to try before I left, in the interest of third time's a charm.” Fourth time, really. He's never been able to best this Michael, but the first two times he wasn't at full strength, and Michael had his sword when Dean killed him. Lucifer would like to think they're closer to an even playing ground this time. 

He's separate now from his mantle of Hell, but those frayed fibers are still at his wingtips enough that he can draw on _something_ as he turns, igniting his grace, gold blade held at an angle and molten hot in his grip. He puts all his force into the thrusting movement and is met with a redoubled response of a bomb detonating, Michael's true form shrouding his vessel, and Lucifer's flung halfway across the empty dirt road and breaking the woodline.

He loses hearing in an ear and the canopy smears together above him and he almost doesn't get his footing again when the blinding consecrating force of his brother reenters his line of sight. 

“You're kidding,” Michael says, holding out his arms. “What's this about, Lucifer? I thought we had a deal.”

Lucifer hadn't cared about messing with that deal because he had been confident about this fight. Well, he lies to everyone else in existence—to himself more than anyone. He ignores the parts of his vessel that are screeching at him for the abuse he's putting it through. This is all or nothing. His vessel can shut right up. His wings splay and he reaches his mind out to the world around them, thrusting into the present-day Hell and _reminding_ it Who He is. He is King—forever and always—and it _will_ answer him. 

His mantle fully reengages as Michael comes for him and he hurls a whistling weave of energy, grace-fueled and power-incarnate as his eyes glow and he hits Michael dead-on. Michael staggers, but he braces himself for the second and third strikes Lucifer throws at him. His stance slips on the fourth and he redirects it into a cluster of trees, bark disintegrating into ash on contact. Michael's wings reflect on the dust clouds and his eyes may be angry but there's a laughter from his throat and Lucifer realizes in fear that he can't keep lying to himself. 

He can't win this. 

He should have forced his brother to come with him regardless what firm grounds his host held him to. Any advantage he can get, _right_? Screw you, Dean Winchester. 

“It's as I said,” Lucifer says, unnaturally calm. “You can't blame a guy for trying.”

“I don't know,” Michael drawls, walking towards him. “I think I can.” 

Lucifer would probably blame him, too, if the situation had been reversed. 

He bends from Michael's blow, the sizzled corruption of his grace coating his arm and biting into Lucifer. This isn't the same as the Fallen nature of Lucifer, and maybe that's just the usurped Laws of Apocalypse World. By normal logic, Lucifer thinks, Michael should have Fallen long ago from Heaven; but, Michael was still _in control_ of Heaven. He took it and perverted it in a way that made even Lucifer—who made it a goal to manipulate and change souls—quiver in disgust. 

He blocks Michael, lurches out of range of the blade, gets a stab in—though not enough for a deathblow—and wrenches free again, putting space between them. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get _back_. This isn't even close to a fair fight, and he's _already_ tired. Maybe he should have given himself a few days after traveling back this far, but he doesn't think the universe would have _allowed_ him the comfort of that time. 

“Lu, this is just getting _pathetic_ ,” Michael growls, and he rolls a blast of grace directly at Lucifer, knocking him off balance. “I don't know if it's the weakness of your vessel or if it's _just you_ , but you can't even come close to the strength of _my_ Lucifer.”

“Now, that's just rude,” Lucifer quips. In his mind he's reaching out and clinging to the distant call of 2319 like it's his only lifeline. In his distraction, Michael sails the forest floor, grabbing a hold of him by his upper arm, toying with his archangel blade in tantalizing closeness. 

“But it's true,” Michael continues, grinning, eyes sparkling with a pleasure that Lucifer remembers seeing when he killed Gabriel, and for a moment Lucifer feels paralyzed by that memory alone. “He could put up a real fight.” 

“You...” Lucifer rasps, “really talk too much, bro.” He breaks free and stumbles backwards, gathering what's left of his reserves as Michael slashes his blade through one of Lucifer's wings. He screams, vision shorting, and while he makes the jump, his return to Kansas City blacks out the district and he's laying on his side, blood and grace pooling around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of the ones that took me the _longest_.


	51. 51

**51**

Saturday, November 28, 2319

“Is he...?” Dean says, standing out of the way and only being able to see Lucifer in the darkness because he was glowing, blinding enough that Dean can recognize the faintest outline of slumped wings, but not enough that his eyes were burning out of their sockets. The _whine_ of power had faded to a low scratch at Dean's ears.

“He's still alive,” Michael says. 

He looks scared.

“I... I should have...”

“And make him watch another brother killed in front of him?” Dean snaps. “You staying behind gave him the best chance.”

“And that wasn't enough.” Michael sinks down to his knees by his brother. There's caution as he reaches out. “I... don't know if I can heal this.”

Lucifer hasn't moved. Dean think he's barely even conscious. 

“... Can I help?” he asks.

Michael's gaze is stricken. His eyes glow not from his grace, but Lucifer's. “That... may be unwise. If you overexert yourself then I'll have two bodies that I can't help.”

“I-I know,” Dean says. “And I know I _don't_ know what I'd be doing and you're spreading yourself thinner by helping me but—look I... I'm not a Hunter anymore, but maybe I can heal.”

Michael is distant before he says, with the faintest of smiles, “Adam's proud of you.” 

Dean feels _exposed_. He's only glad that his expression is barely visible by Lucifer's light. 

“Alright.” Michael indicates across from him on Lucifer's other side. “That _exact_ spot, or you'll end up on his wing.” 

Dean does as he's instructed. When Michael lays his palms over Lucifer's back, he nods to Dean to put his hands over his. 

“You said Jack's power sounded like a song to you, right?” Michael asks. “Focus on that melody and don't let your mind stray. Just let it out as a trickle—like a dripping faucet. Feed the warmth through me and I will channel it. If at any point you think you might lose control, pull away.” 

Dean doesn't think he's crazy to imagine Michael's tone as _please don't kill my brother_ and he nods, focusing inward and finding a strand of that familiar song, letting it loop in his mind a few times before he tries to guide just the barest surface of the energy into Michael.

Even without direct contact to Lucifer, the damage is an immediate spike through the melody and Dean jerks his hands away before he can fuck up. He breathes uneasily and is grateful that Michael doesn't call him out. 

Maybe this is why Michael told him to focus on the song.

He swallows and tries again, bracing his mind this time so that when that same spike tries to overwhelm him he can push back and shutdown on everything else and only embody that song.

He doesn't know how long they stay locked in place. Dean pulls away once when Michael shifts his healing to Lucifer's wing and Dean's own back feels _heavy_ and mirrors the pain like there's a blade dug into his spine, but Dean forces himself to return to the work, determined. 

And then Lucifer wakes, grace scattering away from him in a howl. Michael and Dean are knocked back, and Dean just barely tampers down his own violent answer as Lucifer sits up, chest heaving.

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Michael admonishes. 

Lucifer looks to him, eyes red, then to Dean, confused, before he lets his defenses drop and he pitches forward. 

“So, didn't go as planned?” Dean fights to say.

“Don't kill him,” Michael interrupts Lucifer before he can react, “he's been healing you for as long as I have.”

“ _What_?” is all Lucifer gets out before he collapses backwards and is once again out. 

Dean sighs. “He going to be okay now?”

“I believe so,” Michael says. “I finished the last connections of grace to wing, wing to vessel. I think that's what woke him.” He gets to his feet. “Will you help me move him?”

“What's the likelihood he wakes up and tries to kill me?”

“Slim. Probably.”

Without the pools of Lucifer's grace, Dean can't tell if Michael is just screwing with him. He sighs again and at risk of his better health, helps Michael move Lucifer to one of the couches. 

In the morning the power's back on and Adam's drinking a cup of coffee and Lucifer is gone.

“He wasn't here when I woke up,” Adam says, “but Michael's not worried. He doesn't think Lucifer even intended to come here, but the wing damage interrupted his flight plan.”

“I'm glad he ended up here,” Dean says honestly. “He shouldn't lurk in Hell with those kind of injuries.”

Adam nods in agreement. “So. Healing?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I don't think I'd want to try it without help... there's just too much.”

“Michael wouldn't have been able to heal him without your help.”

And that... that feels good.


	52. 52

**52**

Thursday, December 3, 2319

It's almost an entire week before Lucifer shows back up. Dean glares at him from his work. Hava had given him a list of all the Circles around the world and their consensus about him, the current state of affairs, and God. 

(Hava gave him _homework_.) 

“You coulda sent a memo that you weren't dead,” Dean tells him. “All we had were Michael's thoughts.”

“ _Aw_ ,” Lucifer mocks, “worried, Winchester?”

“Dude, I could nearly see your wings with how much of your grace was on my floor.”

Lucifer startles. 

“So I _think_ if I was a little worried, _most_ people wouldn't blame me. What the hell, man? I don't have any weirdly new memories of Michael flipping his lid that you tried to gank him from the future, so I assume he just thought you were the one from his time.”

Lucifer winces at his words. “I clearly misjudged how weak the jump would have made him. It hardly seems right.”

“So if he can't be killed when he should be at his weakest, we really have no chance.”

“... No. I'm afraid not.” 

“ _Dammit_.” 

“Mm.” Lucifer looks away, but Dean had caught his conflicted gaze. “Michael said you aided in healing me.”

“Yeah, well, you saved my ass enough times,” Dean grumbles, feeling awkward. “I could at least _try_ to help repay the favor.”

Lucifer looks back to him. “Thank you.”

This must have been how Lucifer felt when Dean thanked him. Like a weird, out-of-body experience. He doesn't know how Lucifer ever managed a _'you're welcome'_ because it feels stuck to the roof of Dean's mouth. He says, instead, “Well, don't bank on it. It's only vaguely reliable at best.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Where do we go from here if we can't kill Michael?” 

“That _is_ the question. Where is my brother?”

“Heaven. Adam's on walkabout.” 

“I see. Tell Adaira when they return and I will be back.”

“Hear that, pup?” And it rattles him to hear a huff of assent in answer. It's not that he... _forgets_ she's there, but... “See you later,” Dean says to Lucifer, and watches the empty spot where Lucifer had been. 

It should not have been such a relief to know he was still alive.

Dean shakes himself out of it, returning to his “homework” and letting it absorb his thoughts until Adam comes back. “So, Lucifer was here earlier,” he says after Adam joins him at the kitchen table with a snack.

“Oh? How was he?”

“Fine, I guess. Not dead, y'know. Wants to discuss where to go from here, whenever you and Michael are ready.”

Adam drops his head to the table, “Yeah,” he mumbles, “I guess that makes sense.”

“We can give it a bit?”

“No, it's fine.”

And Dean hopes that's enough for Adaira because he's not so sure revealing a hellhound is a good play, Lucifer. But after a couple minutes pass, Lucifer is leaning with his back to the island, watching them both stiffly.

“So,” Lucifer starts.

Adam blurs away under the surface and Michael meets Lucifer's gaze. “Are you doing okay?” 

“All this _concern_ for little ol' me,” Lucifer says derisively, looking from him to Dean. “ _Really_ , it's sickeningly sweet, but there's no need.”

Michael looks annoyed. Dean can't blame him.

“What happened?” Michael demands. 

“I lost,” Lucifer sings, and then his voice sharpens, “ _obviously_. But, fun fact, I realized something that should have likely been clearer to me. This planet's sickness? M—Apocalypse Michael was the direct cause. Similarly, I'm guessing, to his corruption of Heaven in his own world. It's like he took the process of demon creation and took it to a—quite frankly—ridiculous level. Normally I'd say I was impressed.”

“So, what, he made the planet demonic?” Dean says. 

Lucifer makes an exaggerated shiver. “Don't say anything so disgusting, Dean. It isn't like that. The planet doesn't—it, _eugh_ ,” he breaks off, hands moving through the air as he tries to find his words. “Earth doesn't have a _soul_. It's closer to an angel than a human. It doesn't have a soul, but it has an essence—a lifeforce. Not grace just... _being_. He drove an ice pick into that being and bled all his corruption from his world into this one. It _started_ the illness. God gets shunted, and the planet no longer has its cure.” 

“These metaphors are driving me insane,” Dean says.

“It's the same problem as before,” Lucifer snaps. “I just now understand the cause.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes.

“So allowing influence back to our Father is still our best goal,” Michael states.

“Unfortunately,” Lucifer answers snidely. “More of the same! I hate it.”

“I think,” Dean starts, “that's something we can all agree on.”


	53. 53

**53**

Sunday, December 6, 2319

“Timmy fall down the well again?” Lucifer drones. 

He's taken to sprawling over a slab of Hell that none of his demons would dare go—not that they're a very exploratory bunch. But they're not much of anything; Lucifer had hoped that quantity would have more value than quality but he's come to regret that decision. 

He lifts his arm from where he's slung it over his head and peers down at the concentrated evil that is Adaira and thinks he should test Dean's continual claims that he could have gotten himself out of his fights, eventually. Lucifer isn't exactly _up_ for tussling with anything. There's still a searing agony to his wing where Apocalypse Michael sliced through it. Even after the healing the two had done for him, flying _hurts_. 

He'd made the mistake of checking in on Ruth and her glaring disappointment at seeing him again; it was a mutual feeling. He had only relocated her once before returning her to where she was comfortable in India. Flying her to-and-fro was only going to slow his recovery. 

“He couldn't wait until _after_ I've fully recovered to get into trouble?” Lucifer laments. 

Of course not, when has Dean Winchester ever made anything easy for Lucifer?

Adaira's growl is quiet, but urgent. 

Lucifer slowly slaps his hands over his face and drags at his skin. “Leviathans,” he echoes. “Because why not!” Because his power isn't already slashed enough between the bindings and his injuries, he has to add the Leviathan's aura on top of it? 

He needs a vacation. 

“How many?” he asks as he peels himself off the slab to sit up. At her bark, he worries a bit at his lip. Maybe he could convince Michael to go, but then he'd have to admit to his weakened state, and it's bad enough already that Michael had to heal him. “Okay,” he says, like he's psyching himself up.

He's pretty sure Adaira is _judging_ him. He wants to tell her he commanded respect from _her mother_ once upon a time, but instead he takes flight, following both her guidance and the familiar trace of Dean's soul-power mix. 

It was, ultimately, probably a mistake. 

“Oh, hey guys,” he says, and he might just hit the ground from the flight alone, his entire right side completely numb, his wing dead weight and useless. It gets him the swinging of a fist to the face and a kick to the side and he staggers over exploded Leviathan guts on the ground and— _ah_ —Lucifer had counted three Leviathans but Adaira had informed him that there had been four. “You really gotta stop trying to blow things up with your mind, Dean,” he drawls, this time catching the fist before it shudders through him again. 

“I'd say practice makes perfect,” Dean says, panting, “but I think it's just going to be shitty regardless.” He takes aim with a pistol which Lucifer finds laughable until the Leviathan's face is burning and it screams, jolting away from Lucifer. 

Interesting. “You're better armed, hm?” Lucifer says, drawing to Dean's side, watching the remaining three as Dean shoots each, only succeeding in getting them to back off for a moment to recuperate.

“Weakness to cleaning chemicals. How dumb is that?” 

Lucifer snorts.

“You shouldn't be here,” Dean says. 

“I'm _sorry_?”

Dean lines up another shot when one tries to get frisky. “If they got the drop on you then you're still healing,” Dean says. “And I bet that's making their anti-angel BS a whole lot worse.”

Lucifer grits his teeth. He'd expected Michael would have been able to expose him. He hadn't given Dean enough credit. 

“I _did_ consider leaving you for dead,” he says airily. 

Dean, unexpectedly, laughs at that. “Wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Given your general opinion about living, I'm not entirely surprised.”

“Okay, well, look. I don't have a lot of these bullets left and I know it's _super strange_ ,” Dean mocks, “but I don't _actually_ trust that we can take them.”

Lucifer makes a noncommittal sound, but it might as well be in agreement. 

“So either I go all Pikachu on these assholes and hope it takes something out, doesn't hit you, and you can still get me out after—or we call Michael.”

That's exactly what Lucifer _didn't_ want to do. He should be _able_ to handle three Leviathans. 

Just like he should have been able to handle Apocalypse Michael. 

_Dammit_ he was a soldier too, once. This is _nothing_. 

He tries to move in an offensive strike and his wing spasms and he crashes to a knee in shock. 

Dean swears, shoots, swears again, and switches to a knife. 

Lucifer can feel the rise Dean is calling on and it is truly impressive that he was still standing after the first kill. Lucifer doesn't imagine he's going to hold on a second time. 

But Lucifer can't move. 

One head rolls before he's face-full of Leviathan. 

Screw it.

 _“Michael,”_ is all he sends out into the world, a whisper of urgency, of need. “Dean, _don't_ ,” he commands, feeling the moment that swell hits its climax, about to bowl over, and he prays that his hope in Michael isn't misplaced. 

Dean's deathgrip on his power dissipates the moment Michael arrives and Lucifer only relaxes just barely. Even with that same aura weighing down his brother, Michael isn't hindered by any lasting injuries. He takes out the remaining Leviathans with no issue, but there's a conflict behind his eyes when the adrenaline leaves him, and he's looking between Lucifer's bent over form, and Dean.

“Lucifer?” Michael asks, but Lucifer thinks he can hear all the unsaid words. 

Lucifer's lips curl in a sneer of disgust, and he doesn't answer.

Dean drags himself over to them. “He's still hurt,” Dean says, and yeah, Lucifer should have let him die after all, even if he can _hear_ Dean's bitterness underlying the words, which Lucifer finds stupid. He never _said_ he was better. He very specifically didn't say _anything_ about his state of being. “He came to help me.”

“I'm—” _fine_ gets lost and he slumps. “It'll _be_ fine,” he says instead. 

“Lucifer, it's not an injury you can just shrug off,” Michael berates. “You should have stayed with us while you recovered. _Then_ I could have kept adding layers of healing.”

Lucifer manages to stand, but that's about all he can do. Anger clouds his expression. 

Dean interrupts him before he can even open his mouth, “Can you stop being high and mighty for like _five seconds_ and just come back with us? If you could fly out of here, you would have done it already.”

He shakes his head and momentarily closes his eyes . 

“Lucifer,” Michael says slowly, “can you move it at all?”

“No,” he forces out. “Forget about it,” he demands. “It's none of either of your concern.”

The two glares he gets in response apparently say otherwise. 

“Dude,” Dean says, sharp, “you're acting like _me_. Is that what you want?”

Lucifer has to hand it to Dean. It's an effective argument. “No.”

“Cool, so stop playing it off like you're 'fine' and let Michael help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far as I'm concerned Lucifer's the only one that can see and understand the hellhounds >_> Michael probably could see them I guess if he assumed he had to look closer, but why would he?


	54. 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_viqIWgWls&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=4) Living Light – Extended Mix by Sophie Hutchings

**54**

Tuesday, December 8, 2319

Michael is atop a mountain, legs dangling over empty air, grace and wings keeping them safe from the elements. 

Adam watches on, worried. Michael had rebuffed any comfort Adam had tried to give him, shoulders slumping and an obvious muddiness of emotions reverberating between them. Adam thinks back to Michael's apprehension when Lucifer had prayed to him, and the surge of feeling that threatened to overwhelm them when he took in the scene after they arrived.

 _“This isn't your fault,”_ Adam says again. He never could quite understand Michael's complicated feelings for his brother—Adam's own complicated feelings for Dean hardly come close. _“Now he might give himself time to properly recover?”_ Adam had to stifle a laugh at Dean's devious method to get Lucifer to stay put. 

They'll have to see how long that lasts for. 

“I'm _useless_ here, Adam,” Michael whispers, startling Adam. He doesn't know how _long_ they've been out here without Michael speaking a word.

 _“Keeping Heaven afloat is not 'useless,' Michael,”_ Adam argues.

“I should have been able to go back with him.”

 _“That would have been nice,”_ Adam agrees, _“but you know that was impossible. I wish you would stop beating yourself up about it.”_

Michael's wings cocoon around them and Adam hates seeing him like this. 

The sun's greatly changed positioning in the sky by the time Michael speaks again, “The Cage.”

_“Huh?”_

Adam feels like the cliffside's collapsed out from under them as he's swept up in Michael sifting through their memories, more specifically, Adam's.

_“A little warning next time!”_

Michael ignores him. Adam will forgive him just this once. “Even without maintenance, the Cage shouldn't have broken down as fast as it did. Even Lucifer gave it an odd look.” He pulls up Adam's memory, as Michael had still been dragging himself from his dormant state at the time. Adam can see it then, the way Lucifer observes the sigils, frowning. “They should have lasted another few centuries, perhaps more, Earth-time.”

_“Okay... but what's that mean?”_

“Do you remember, after Lucifer walked free? After the Darkness? I had thought I sensed the presence of another archangel.”

_“You thought it felt like you, and that you were losing your mind.”_

“What if it _was_ me?”

Adam frowns. _“What?”_

Michael turns to look at him for the first time since he flung himself on a mountain for solitude. There's that resplendence in his eyes again that Adam loves, hating every time it disappears. “What if _we_ weakened our own Cage?”

 _“… I … I think it's worth asking Lucifer about what he was looking at that day,”_ Adam allows.

They're almost surprised that when they return, Lucifer is still there, sprawled out on a couch with the fireplace going. He's certainly still not _happy_ about it, but while Michael couldn't imagine what a paralyzed wing feels like, he doubts Lucifer wants to go through it again. Dean glances up at them from the kitchen table in acknowledgment before going back to whatever he was working on. 

“Lucifer,” Michael starts, hoping to earn eye contact, but Lucifer stalwartly watches the flames. Michael sighs. “I had a question about when you came to release us; you looked at the cell oddly, why?”

Lucifer does, then, glance his way. Dean does too, interested. 

“It...” Lucifer fishes for words, “seemed off.”

“How so?”

Lucifer laughs dismissively and stares back at the flames. “Impossibly.” 

_“Would it kill him to be more forthcoming?”_ Adam sighs.

 _“It might,”_ Michael answers. 

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer waves a hand through the air. “Like it had been tampered with by angels. Like I said: impossibly.”

“Unless I did it.”

Lucifer's errant hand curls into a fist and he tilts his head, thoughtful. “That's...”

“What?” Dean speaks up. “Seriously? I thought that thing was _literally_ supposed to be tamper-proof. That was the whole point.”

“Outside of our Father,” Lucifer says, “Michael would be the only one to have influence over its workings.” 

“Except from the inside,” Michael laments. 

“So you go back, futz around with some sigils, so that Lucifer can bust you out further down the road?” Dean sinks back into his chair, arms flopping to his sides. “How do y'all even keep track of this shit? How do you know your going back isn't going to throw things outta alignment?”

“ _Someone_ tampered with the Cage,” Lucifer argues, “and it could reasonably only _be_ Michael, from this time.”

“But how come you didn't _know_?” Dean demands. 

“I did,” Michael admits, “I just didn't understand it. If you were to alter the sigils surrounding the... 'viewing cell,' it would alter the Cage. We had been... in the Cage proper. Adam, at some point after my other self walked the Earth, had 'moved' us to the viewing cell.”

“Needed some extra draft?” Lucifer cracks.

“Something like that,” Michael says slowly. 

“You both are certain about this,” Dean says, a little stunned. 

“I've been... considering if there was anything I could do to help through time travel, now that we have that option available to us,” Michael says. “And this... feels right.”

“No one expects you to time travel,” Dean snaps. “I sure as hell don't expect Lucifer to try it again. It was a gambit, it blew up in our faces, next play—'more of the same,' whatever.”

Lucifer grunts.

 _“See,”_ Adam says. _“I told you.”_

Dean's blunt honesty helps, Michael thinks.

“I... have to do this, regardless,” he says eventually.

Dean sighs and mumbles something under his breath that Michael can't follow, casting his eyes to the ceiling before he leans to the side and peers Lucifer's direction. “If his trip back goes south, will you be able to heal him? Or guide me?”

Michael watches his brother give it some thought, which is a bit of a relief to see him taking it seriously.

“I believe so,” Lucifer says. 

“Okay.” Dean nods. “So then you're fine to go whenever you want, you'd just better tell us when you leave and _you'd better_ come _back here_ after. No like... hiding somewhere to heal.”

Michael grins at Lucifer's extremely sour expression. Grace alights Michael's eyes and it's Adam that says to Dean, “Yes, Mom.”

“Shut it. I'm trying to keep you safe.”

“I know,” Adam says with a smile. “We'll go long before Apocalypse Michael is around, so we won't be held down by him. And no one's ever anywhere near the Cage.”

“I only ever got one visitor,” Lucifer says wistfully.

“Cas and I were there, too,” Dean growls. “And fuck you anyway, you brainwashed my brother to go to you.”

“Eh,” Lucifer says lazily, “I'm sure my influence vastly improved his mental fortitude for the rest of his, albeit short, life.”

Dean groans. Adam thinks Lucifer is very carefully toeing the line between _annoyance_ and what would get Dean to kick him out, which leaves Adam to assume Lucifer's more worried about his injury than he's been letting on. 

_“An_ archangel _losing the ability to fly is... unheard of,”_ Michael murmurs. _“Lucifer may be Fallen but, as far as I'm aware, he's never been unable to fly. I don't imagine he'd recover if that changed.”_

_“So better hope Dean doesn't get pissed at him.”_

_“Dean's... proven to 'put up' with my brother. It may get... rough, but I believe we'll all, somehow, get through this stretch of time.”_

_“Speaking of time?”_

_“We'll go tomorrow?”_

_“Sounds good.”_

“Okay, but, like, last question—how are you even gonna get into Hell? And find Lucifer's Cage.”

“At this point it could just be renamed to Archangels' Cage,” Lucifer grumbles. 

Dean winces. 

It's Michael that answers, “ _I_ know where the Cage is,” he says solemnly. “It's embedded into the fabric of my being.”

“Lovely,” Lucifer says. “But the Winchester makes a valid point. Hell doesn't exactly have the same all-are-welcome policy that I've 'implemented' here.”

“I will be able to breach Hell. I'll just have to be stealthy about it.”

“Michael, I've never known you to have a stealthy bone in your body.”


	55. 55

**55**

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Atoms slot out of place when Michael lands. It feels like Adam slips away from him, as much as Adam is capable of, and Michael turns, slow, trying to scoop up the soul, like if he doesn't he'll lose it forever. _“ADAM!”_

Adam lolls in Michael's embrace, seizing and trembling and this—this shouldn't _happen_ , why is this happening?! _“Adam. Adam! Answer me!”_ he demands. Adam hasn't reacted. Michael looks around them; his aiming wasn't too bad, a motel that he could leave Adam while he traversed Hell, but how could he now? He gets them a room, regardless, using more subterfuge than he'd prefer, but his haste in getting Adam off the street takes priority, even though outwardly their vessel wasn't showing any strain. 

He takes time to comb over Adam's soul, feeling the flutter of life beneath his touch, but it was very weak, and Michael feels faint in a way he didn't anticipate. 

_“I'm—”_

_“Adam!”_

_“I'm awake. Michael, you have to go to Hell.”_

_“I can't_ leave you _like this.”_

_“I don't think I'm exactly going to get better any time soon, and we can't—we can't waste this time. Someone, probably Lucifer, is bound to find us the longer we're here out of place.”_

_“Adam, your safety isn't a_ waste _of my time!”_

_“Michael.”_

Michael vibrates unhappily. 

_“We'll still be connected, it's not like I can die,”_ Adam jokes.

_“This isn't funny. I don't know why this happened!”_

_“I know. And we'll figure it out. But if you don't go to Hell, we won't be here to let ourselves OUT.”_

Michael hangs his head, feeling the swirl of time around his very existence, pressing in. Similarly to Lucifer, he's never liked time travel, but for a different reason: just because he's _able_ to do it, doesn't mean he should. Adam's light feels brighter already, like he won't just disappear on Michael if he leaves him alone, and Adam's _right_ , he can't _die_ , but that doesn't mean Michael has to like this. 

_“Souls aren't usually,”_ Michael swallows, _“present in their vessels. By the nature of angels, we keep them contained in their little boxes. I kept_ you _contained when we were first together, I think you'll remember.”_

_“Yeah? It sucked. What's your point?“_

_“Souls have never time traveled.”_

When they left Hell in the past it was under the power of Lucifer, not their own. And they were already feeling terrible; even if there had been a problem with the jump, they were leaving his other's sphere of influence to somewhere they could finally breathe. 

_“Oh. One small step?”_

_“Congratulations, your soul has experienced many angel firsts,”_ Michael tells him ruefully. _“I couldn't even stifle your soul if I tried.”_

_“I think I'd prefer you didn't, even if it was for my own safety.”_

Michael sighs. Adam's view doesn't surprise him. A selfish part of him is glad because Michael doesn't _know_ if he could _do this_ alone. Even leaving Adam behind while he goes to Hell, they're still linked. If he could contain Adam like the normal vessel-host partnership, there would be _nothing_. Silence as gaping as Hell in their future, barely even a heartbeat of soul. But that _is_ impossible, for better or for worse. 

And Michael doesn't want to do a trip like this again unless he has no other choice. 

_“I think I can buffer our way back,”_ he says at last. _“So you won't take the brunt of it like you did.”_

 _“Okay. Still sounds awful. Seriously,_ go _, Michael. I'll just take a nap while you're gone.”_

 _“I don't think you'll remain conscious when I separate,”_ Michael says, realizing he will, in a way, be alone after all.

_“Well, then I'll just lie here like a log. Can you go to Hell from here?”_

_“I can go from anywhere.”_

_“Just remember stealth, yeah? Prove Lucifer wrong.”_

That ignites a fire in Michael, intense. _“Yes,”_ he agrees fiercely, and Adam smiles. _“Hang in there, okay?”_ He's accustomed to leaving his vessel every time he goes to Heaven, but this was... different. Leaving his vessel and then _also_ breaching Hell would be like punching a hole through his grace, but he thinks even the King of Hell won't notice his arrival. The only one that _could_ is Lucifer, and Michael specifically aimed for a time when Lucifer was already walking free. 

The last time any angel breached Hell was Castiel leading the siege in order to raise Dean. There was no stealth; it was the opposite. Michael sent footsoldiers as a distraction, as _cannon-fodder_ so that the real mission would be obfuscated. 

Michael sacrificed so many just so he could have his sword. 

Now there aren't any angels. Maybe if he had done things differently... 

_“Michael...”_

Michael breathes. He snaps his wings in towards him and divebombs his grace through a sliver of the planet itself. He feels Adam gasp the moment he's separated to the extent that he's able, and Adam's soul sinking, as predicted, into unconsciousness, and Michael is alone as he descends into Hell.

The cacophony that hits him instantly is overpowering. After millennia of Hell filled with nothing but silence, the opposite is _suffocating_ , and without Adam awake to act as a balance, Michael nearly loses himself to it. He concentrates on the one thing within him that can act as a compass—the call of Lucifer's Cage, a terrifying whisper that his Father imprinted on his being, for reasons that he'd hope were just, but he's too tired to understand why in that moment. 

But the call is enough to ground him, and he compresses his power to nothing but a pinprick, dragging Hell's atmosphere over him like a shroud, and he moves to answer that call. 

If he lets his shroud slip even slightly, the flare of an archangel in Hell that isn't Lucifer will be the destruction of him.

He finds the Cage proper, first. That wretched box held aloft in the void of space, chains wrapped about it and holding it secure, streaks of lightning cutting threateningly close to Michael's wings. Finding the viewing cell from there is... the _harder_ part. 

There is no direction around the Cage—a sea of infinite darkness, no surface, no ground. It's about willpower, he thinks. Adam, with his beautiful soul, was able to transfer their spirit to the viewing cell, where they had spent so much of their time—their mind had, anyway. Their body would always be in the Cage, listing away in its dark corners. 

He thinks he can feel the mirror of his grace, but he knows it's probably only an illusion. 

Adam's soul though... Adam's soul he could feel to the edges of the planet, of every plane. It was stronger in Hell than his Adam was in that moment, frighteningly so. He should have known, really, how perilously it was going to be to travel with the way they were. 

He sighs. Dwelling now is only longer for Adam. He can't risk staying out of time for long; Adam is right, if Lucifer senses that a version of him is out of the Cage, there will be trouble. 

He closes his eyes to the emptiness surrounding him, and plummets further. He can't find Limbo, he thinks, if he's looking for it. Entering this particular part of Hell almost damages his being more than his initial breach. 

He laughs to himself, but that call resounds in his mind again, only it's under a different frequency. He follows once more, not knowing which way is up in this darkness, the lightning more sporadic than before. But, eventually, he finds himself in that familiar stretch of land, and the cell standing in ominous mockery, sigils wrapped around all sides of its base. 

He gets to work. 

It's hours, maybe even days. There's a desire to just strike them out completely, free himself early, set a new path, but he knows better, knows even archangels need to stay away from paradoxes. So, his work is meticulous. The smallest scrape at each individual sigil, not erasing the lines entirely, just pulling from them. 

He will do what is _necessary_ and then he will take Adam, bundle him up tight, and return them to what is the closest thing either of them have anymore to a home. 

It was impossible for the trip to go _decent_. 

Dean yells: “Oh come _on_!”

Lucifer mutters: “You maybe should have said 'when' it went badly.”

Dean argues: “Sure, fine, but you were still standing the first time you went back!”

“You guys are—too loud,” Adam coughs. 

“Adam?!” Dean yells, proving Adam's point. “Is Michael—?”

“He's,” Adam rasps, clenching his eyes shut, his head throbbing and his thoughts too much on their own, “unconscious, but okay. He used himself as a buffer around my soul for the trip back.”

“What happened?” Lucifer asks.

“I guess there's _one_ benefit to angels usually stifling the souls they ride with.”

“Oh,” Lucifer says, startled.

“What?” Dean asks.

“A human soul wouldn't ever go through the trip, not actively,” he says to Dean, and then to Adam, “I take it your soul didn't appreciate it?”

“No-pe,” Adam drags out. 

“Hmmm. Well, go ahead,” Lucifer tells Dean, pointing at Adam.

Dean glares. “No way. You said you could act as a guide.”

“What? You're never going to figure out to do it on your own if you don't try.”

Dean grits his teeth. Adam reads fear and shame in his eyes. “I can't. A broken limb, a simple knife wound? Okay. B-But you guys... you're too much.”

Lucifer scoffs.

Dean looks away and Adam wants to tell Lucifer to shut up, but even opening his mouth is hard. “I feel the injuries as if they're my own,” Dean mumbles. “I can't handle that without help.”

Adam is taken aback. That's—

“ _What_?” Lucifer demands, and Adam thinks there's a chill to the air. “You—” He cuts himself off and slaps a hand over his face, massaging his temples. “Fine. I'll guide you.”


	56. 56

**56**

Monday, December 14, 2319

“Hey, kid,” Ligthart says to Dean after the meeting. He sounds uneasy and Dean is immediately guarded. “We need to talk.” 

“What?” Dean asks. “Is something wrong?”

“It's... complicated,” Ligthart says.

“That's not an answer,” Dean growls.

“Yeah,” Ligthart agrees. He nods to the back corner table that Hava is vacating and starts towards it. Dean doesn't _want_ to follow, but there's still enough Circle members lingering that if Ligthart's trying to pull their conversation off to the side, Dean thinks it's likely for good reason. Dean gets up, eyeing Ligthart as the dragon snags a bottle of whiskey and glasses, setting them down at the table and pouring two hearty helpings, sliding one glass to Dean as they both sit.

“Ligthart, what the hell?” Dean demands. 

Ligthart takes his own glass and stares into the dark liquid as he spins it in his hand. “I know you don't typically pay attention to dates,” he starts.

And Dean wants to argue just for the sake of it, because why does Ligthart even _know_ about that, but then he's reminded how observant the dragon is. 

“So what?” he says instead.

Ligthart indicates the glass that Dean hasn't touched and takes a deep breath, then says, gaze meeting Dean's, “'Christmas' is in eleven days. Better known as the Lord's Address.”

“What,” Dean's voice breaks. 

Ligthart takes a sip of his drink. “Obviously there won't be a speech this year, so that alone will cause a global stir.”

“ _Global_?” Dean blanches. “How'd he even reach anyone on a global scale?”

“All monsters, one voice.”

“That's fucked up.” Dean finally takes his glass and drinks, then leans back in his chair, cradling the glass between both his palms. He searches for words. “What am I supposed to do with _that_ , Ligthart?”

“You don't _have_ to do anything, kid. The Commandant's absence for the event is momentous on its own. But you needed to be made aware, and I would not recommend going anywhere that day.”

“Right. Sure.” 

“It's a Friday.” 

Dean clacks the glass to the table and falls forward, burying his head in his hands. 

It's fine. He'll be in a shit state that day, anyway. The whole regularity of a Circle meeting isn't going to make him feel any better.

“Could always get one of your angel buddies to fly you in,” Ligthart suggests slowly.

Dean barks a laugh. “Who's going to want me there, anyway? On the anniversary of Michael taking control? Are you kidding me?”

“You'd be surprised. Mutual suffering.” 

“Yeah, no, I think I'll pass.”

Ligthart sighs and takes another sip. “If you don't end up coming, I can swing by after and share a toast to survival.”

Dean staggers to his feet. “I'll be fine,” he says, turning away. 

“ _Kid_.”

“I'll be fine!” Dean yells, walking towards the exit and not looking back.

He should... tell someone about this.

He doesn't tell anyone.


	57. 57

**57**

Friday, December 25, 2319

“Dean?” Adam asks, stepping out of his room as he zips up his jacket. He frowns, approaching where his brother is standing by the windows, staring out into the darkening skyline, snow flurries beginning to drift down into the city. “Hey, Dean?” 

No response. 

He moves in front of him, waving a hand before Dean's face, but Dean's staring straight on, making no sign that he even knows Adam is there. 

“He's been like that awhile now,” Lucifer says from the couch. 

Adam turns towards him, a jolt of anger coursing through him. He doesn't say anything to Lucifer, taking out his phone and texting Kuehner.

>>I don't think Dean's making it to the meeting tonight.  
>>We had assumed he wasn't?  
>>What do you mean?  
>>Ligthart said when he talked to Dean that it sounded as though he wouldn't make the effort to come. Midnight was the anniversary of the Commandant taking control. Today is a day of... well. Remembrance, for many.  
>>What?  
>>Did he not tell you? 

Adam drops his hand with the phone and presses his other hand to his face. “Dean, you idiot,” Adam hisses. He feels Michael's distant inquiry from Heaven. Adam doesn't reply, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder in an effort to shake him out of whatever... _this_ is. “You can't just... _shut down_ on me, Dean.”

“Just leave him be,” Lucifer snorts. 

Adam clenches his teeth. Michael's buzz of nerves worsens. “Did you know?” Adam says very lowly, gaze jumping to Lucifer.

“Know what?” Lucifer drawls, sounding disinterested.

“Today was the anniversary of _that_ Michael taking control.”

It's only because Adam is _watching_ that he sees Lucifer tense. 

_“Adam... I can_ feel _your violent thoughts.”_

 _“Sorry,”_ Adam finally answers, trying to steady his breathing. _“I don't think Dean's okay.”_

“Well,” Lucifer says, throwing his legs over the side of the couch and sitting up. He spreads his palms, expression blank, but surety in his voice, “Clearly the Winchester intended to deal with it alone.”

“He's not dealing with it!” Adam snaps. He can feel Michael's static of grace, like a hand reaching out to him, linking fingers with Adam's soul, their connection fully righting into place. 

Lucifer cocks his head, eyes narrowing at them like he's noticed Michael rejoining them. “I would not recommend going into his mind, brother,” he warns.

Michael swivels from Dean's catatonic self, to Lucifer, wearing traces of Adam's anger, but he realizes something quickly, stepping into control, saying, accusing, “You're leaving.”

Lucifer shrugs, glancing away. “I think it's time to finally try my hands with flight,” he says lightly. “I've been 'bedridden' long enough.” He clicks his tongue. “Just leave him to work through it on his own.”

“ _Luci_ —”

Lucifer's gone.

Michael hangs his head. Adam says, _“He's probably right about not going into Dean's mind.”_

“Yes,” Michael agrees heavily. “I don't imagine it would be healthy for Dean's sanity—or yours.” He stares back at the space Lucifer had been, having not expected Lucifer to simply up and leave as he had. 

_“I guess we wait it out?”_

“I should be able to do more,” Michael argues. 

_“Some things aren't easily fixed. I just wish he told us about the anniversary. What was he thinking?”_

Michael practically vibrates with annoyance, picturing Lucifer's absolute certainty. “That he wanted to be alone.” He sighs. “Probably didn't expect it to hit him as bad as it had.” 

_“Family is stupid.”_

Michael grins, leaning his head back. Adam's worry and fear for his brother are churning together with Michael's irritation and confusion for his own. “Yes,” he answers. 

They'll wait this out.


	58. 58

**58**

Monday, December 21, 2020

Even with Lucifer's caution of taking his first flight in weeks, it's easy. Perhaps that first flight _shouldn't_ have been three hundred (and one) years into the past, but Lucifer had been... stir crazy. Maybe he was overreaching, by a lot. But it's just... _easy_.

And this time he's not _also_ competing with the presence of another Lucifer. 

They can't kill Michael. That's been made abundantly clear. But... if they kill his true vessel, anyone else he takes after that _will_ be weaker. It would leave them a chance, perhaps. An opening. And maybe, right now, Lucifer really just wants _victory_. 

The bunker's warding is barely a tickle to him—doesn't even think it's properly warded against _any_ angel, which seems like a design flaw to him, or perhaps it's simply kept nonexistent for Castiel's benefit. Still, it causes him some difficulty at just popping right inside where he pleases. 

He takes it slow. 

The only people he can track are Castiel and Dean—Sam and Jack are unknowns. He knows Jack is supposed to be alive, but it stutters his steps to realize he can't sense him anymore, that he's not adept at finding his son sans power like he is Dean. But Dean is checking weaponry when Lucifer stands in the doorway, staring at his back, head cocked to the side. He hasn't killed anyone with his power since his resurrection. The once natural feeling is dormant, even after his tangle with Michael, but that was a separate aspect. 

He's had to rely on the physical prowess of his vessel. 

Still, even raising his hand to snap is like fishing a memory out of his mind. Except... 

Except he hesitates. 

_It's easy_ , he reminds himself. One measly human who he's _tried_ to kill more times than anyone, ever. Tried to at least cause _pain_ since his resurrection, but every time Lucifer's bindings radiate mockingly. 

He can now. There's _nothing_ holding him back. He can kill the Winchester quickly and be gone before anyone knows anything; maybe they'd even assume Michael was somehow at fault.

He stares at his frozen fingers like they've betrayed him.

Why. _Why_? This isn't a _challenge_. 

It is his power, it must be. The memories are there but he's just so _disconnected_ from their impulse. He'll have to do this the hard way, then. He starts into the room—

“Sam, I told you, don't sneak up on me when I'm surrounded by _weapons_ ,” Dean says, turning, mouth agape as Lucifer heaves him into a rack. “ _What_? Nick, what are you—”

Oh and that's interesting, isn't it? Nick's alive. How'd that happen?

“Guess again,” Lucifer sneers.

Dean's face falls. “No. No, you're dead. I killed you.”

“Didn't stick, hm? How's that feel? You offer yourself up to Michael to kill me, but I'm still alive, and you're still Michael's favorite toy.”

Dean thrashes against him. “Fuck you!” He reaches behind him for a weapon.

“Really?” Lucifer mocks. “An archangel blade wouldn't get rid of me, what else could you have to try?”

Dean stabs his side with a regular knife anyway, and _there_ , that's what Lucifer needs. A spark. Vengeful aggression. Retaliation. He raises up one hand about to twist his power and twist Dean's neck but again hisses angrily, stepping away and shaking a finger at Dean.

“No. You're not... you're _nothing_. Killing you is the solution. Killing you stops Michael. Killing you keeps the _world from breaking_ —”

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, “what?”

Lucifer laughs at him. “ _You_ are the reason the world _shatters_. _You're_ the reason God's an absent parent once again. Not even by choice this time! Because you, what, thought _Michael_ would keep his word? You thought because he was my _brother_ he'd be more trustworthy than _me_?” 

“I had to stop you,” Dean says coldly. 

“Yeah,” Lucifer barks, “you're going to really like where _that_ gets you.” He grabs at his head and roars in frustration, eyes red, and only last minute keeps his levels controlled _enough_ that the resident angelic beings won't take notice. 

… He can't.

He doesn't understand why, but he can't kill Dean Winchester. Maybe acting so long as a _protector_ has gotten to his head. Broken his sensibilities.

And as he drops his arms and gets a deeper look at the Winchester, he realizes he _shouldn't_.

“Ah,” he murmurs, quiet, “well, then, I suppose I'm a little sorry for you.”

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps again, nervous.

Lucifer smiles, singing, “Fate says you _have_ to become Michael again.”

Something shudders through Dean. “No. No, I won't let that happen.”

“You don't have a choice, Dean,” Lucifer says, softer than he means. “I can see that chokehold wrapped around you. Can't kill you, can't kill Michael. I'd say enjoy the bit of time you have left, but there's not even a chance for that.” When he goes to snap this time, it's seamless. He pulls away Dean's memories of Lucifer's presence and is gone again before Dean's confusion fades.

Lucifer returns to Hell, present time. The flight strains him, but his wing holds. His horde of demons acknowledge him with an air of uncertainty, and he knows his absence has been longer on their end, but they weren't the sorts to go looking for him. When he joins them in the ever-eternal sorting of souls, they go back to work without comment.

It's the most Lucifer gets done since he started, losing himself in the routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part II ;)
> 
> See you in a week or so.


	59. PART III: 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tns6P0F9oUo&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=3) An Ending, a Beginning by Dustin O'Halloran
> 
> “Probably” is apparently a white noise word to me because it somehow escaped my word frequency edits. I've gone back through and cut them in half at least. Holy cow. 
> 
> I also learned that just posting on Wed is easier. Doing drafts ahead of time and then remembering to change all the chapters' publication dates gives me anxiety lol.

###  **PART III**

> The force, I felt  
>  Is talking to my heart  
>  And the trust, dispraise  
>  Has made myself deformed  
>  And softly, you hold me with my past  
>  I can't, omit, the contract with my death  
>  [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mgwnvbXgMg&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=25) Paranoid by She, in the haze

**59**

Friday, January 1, 2320

It's embarrassing the amount of times that Dean's needed Adam (and in conjunction, Michael) to scrape Dean's emotionally-wrought self off the metaphorical floor. The fact that Dean and Adam could _wait it out_ nearly indefinitely due to having something _other_ sustain them was unhealthy at best and trauma-inducing at worst. 

Still, it had been a good thirty-two hours of Adam sitting with Dean until Dean dragged himself out of the recesses of his mind and proceeded to ignore the worried whispers as he flinched away from the low tone because Michael— _his_ Michael—was always the quiet one, pushing soft words into Dean's mind that are never, _never_ going to go away. Adam's whispers became shouts after that and while it eased something in Dean, he kept his mouth shut, made himself a bowl of cereal, and closed himself into his room, door slammed in Adam's face. 

He didn't leave again until his phone calendar ticked over to _2320_ and he let himself break outwardly instead of holing it all up inside of him, and the person that walked out to yell _“Happy New Year”_ through the penthouse was a gaunt individual who had once again forgotten how to _be_. 

(And surprise, surprise, Lucifer hadn't come back. Whatever. Dean didn't care. Lucifer had spent nearly three weeks recovering, surely his wing wasn't going to debilitate him now.)

Adam stumbles out of his room and stares at Dean, hair sticking up every which way. Dean reminds himself that it is, in fact, just after midnight. 

“You chose _now_ to come out of hiding?” Adam groans.

Dean stomps to the fridge and pulls out a beer, cracking the top off and taking a long pull. He spreads his arms. “Oh, but a toast is in order. I don't have any champagne—who knows if they even make champagne anymore. You think Michael would go find some for us? I mean, it's only proper and all!”

“Dean,” Adam chides, stepping out of his room and across the floor, feet barefooted. “You... you're not...”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Dean hisses.

“You haven't left your room in a week.”

“So?” Dean laughs. His voice cracks. He takes another swig. He debates if he can even _get_ drunk anymore if he tried, or if his soundtrack floods it out. “Gives you a taste what living alone would be like.”

“ _That's_...! Why didn't you let us help?” 

A cruel smile takes over Dean's face. “I doomed you. I doomed all of you. I don't want your help.” He doesn't _deserve_ Adam's help. He finishes his beer and walks across the room, grabs a warm coat, throws open the entry door, gives Adam the finger, and parades out of the penthouse.

It doesn't get much better after that. The white noise of the city is the same that blanketed him when he first woke up. He knows how many heads he turns, how many still shy away from him, but he walks with a confidence that isn't his own, wearing a mask to block out how _this_ is his life. Some of the passing comments trickle in. Murmurs of _“Lord”_ and quiet chatter about his absent address. He settles on a park bench and doesn't return til morning. 

The white noise doesn't leave him. 

Adam tries to engage him but it falls on deaf ears. Dean goes to the Circle meetings only out of habit. The leaders and Hava each try to get him out of his funk, but he just shrugs them off and he knows time is passing but he has no recollection. 

He stares at his pile of unfinished work and he should... he should do something about that. 

(He ignores that, too.)


	60. 60

**60**

Wednesday, January 20, 2320

Lucifer had, clearly, been gone for too long. Adam almost looked _relieved_ to see him, and Dean wasn't... well. Dean wasn't anything. 

“I... see everyone has been just as productive as I have while I've been gone,” Lucifer offers to the room. 

Adam glares at him. There, that's something back to normal.

Lucifer raises a brow at Dean. Dean hasn't moved from how he has his chair propped up on its two back legs, feet resting on a standing table that Lucifer is positive used to hold an eccentric sculpture, facing the windows and staring out blankly. 

It's almost akin to how Lucifer last saw the Winchester, only this time he isn't standing.

Lucifer looks back to Adam, but Adam doesn't have the same concern from Christmas, which means _this_ isn't a new thing. 

“Got any new thoughts on our efforts?” Lucifer asks in a jeering tone, turning to face Dean again, hands on his hips. 

_That_ seems to sink in, Dean going tense, eyes angry when they land on Lucifer. “Why don't you just go back in time and kill me?” Dean demands. 

It's exactly what Lucifer had been expecting, really. Eventually. Michael and Adam weren't going to be the ones to suggest it, but sink Dean into a dark enough mood... He shoots a withered look at Adam, like it's somehow his fault that Dean's in this disastrous state, even when Lucifer himself hasn't been back since Dean's shutdown. 

He's come out of it enough to yell at Lucifer. 

It's not much of an improvement. 

Dean continues, “Before Michael gets me. Then any vessel he's in is weaker, right? He doesn't get his sword?”

“We can't,” Lucifer says, almost immediately. “That's not... if we go back to kill you, you don't exist in the future to manage your prayer. I'm not _risking_ someone else having the same fortune that you did.”

“... Oh.” The anger cuts off, and he starts to fade back into this empty shell of himself. 

Lucifer purses his lips. “I don't know what to tell you, Dean. I imagine Fate has you.” 

He _knows_ Fate has Dean, but that certainty will only cause Lucifer problems. Logic versus knowledge. He can't let Michael catch on that there might be more to his words—that is _not_ a conversation Lucifer wants to have with him, or any of them. 

“Fate and I are old friends,” Dean drawls. 

“I suppose they are.” Lucifer eyes the clock on the wall. “Shouldn't you be getting ready for a Circle's meeting?”

“Screw that,” Dean bites out.

“... Mmhm.” 

“He's skipped the last three,” Adam says, voice daring. 

Little shit, Lucifer thinks. But _fine_. If Lucifer has to do everything around here, then so be it.

“Okay,” he snaps, dropping his arms and stepping over to Dean. “We're doing this.” He reaches out and grabs Dean by the shoulder and Dean's chair clatters down to all four legs as Lucifer whips them over to the outside of Howl at the Moon. 

“What the _hell_?!” Dean yells, swiveling around, hands tight in fists, an unchecked swell of power following his heels that Lucifer should _probably_ start having more concern for. Hmm. “What's your problem?” 

Lucifer holds up both hands to indicate Dean. “I believe that's obvious.” 

Dean growls, gets his bearings, and starts to storm angrily back in the direction of Hitomi Plaza.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Lucifer tuts, walking around quickly to block his path. “What, you're just going to keep sulking? Because that achieves anything? I went from a few smatterings of demons to almost a hundred in the last three weeks, and you're, what? Having another pity party?”

“Fuck off,” Dean seethes. 

“Why? Our brothers have let you go on and on with _this_.” Maybe they tried to do something—Lucifer doubts that Adam would have given up, but he's too gentle of heart. 

“What do you care?”

“Ohh, fair question, that's a good one.” Lucifer doesn't answer. He steps forward and shoves Dean back towards the bar. From just that touch Lucifer can feel the buzz under Dean's skin. He's seen enough exploded Leviathan guts to know he doesn't _want_ to feel that punch of energy, but it might be good for a relief of tension. “Let's go.” 

“You can't make me go anywhere.” 

“Oh, I bet I can. But go ahead and try to stop me?”

Dean barks a laugh. “Really, you want to play that game?” 

“I think I do.”

“You're a fucking moron.”

“Mm. _Come on_ , Dean,” Lucifer purrs, leaning in, eyes alight. “I know you haven't been in a fight in _so_ long. You get in trouble so often I can only imagine you haven't _gone outside_ in weeks. Have you upgraded your deathwish into just simply being a coward?” 

He slips back just as Dean throws his punch, expecting the sear of power that follows the second. His bindings visibly groan into view as he blocks, fighting to get any safeguards to materialize beyond his bounds. Oh, this is going to hurt, but he thinks it's necessary. He's just pleased that at this time of night the street outside Howl at the Moon is quiet—the city long since having an awareness for the monsters, _their_ protectors, traveling for the gathering.

Admittedly, the first ones that will show are one or both of the dragons, and Lucifer really needs to get Dean sorted _before_ they arrive, remembering Kuehner's partial transformation. 

Lucifer steps wrong and meets Dean's impactful jab, but the force wielded behind it is less striking than Lucifer thought it would be—there's fire and ice and light, and none of those have any strength to them, like Dean's mind can't comprehend how it _should_ be. He still cracks a rib of Lucifer's vessel, and Lucifer pivots, gets in close, and grabs for Dean's arm before he can make another swipe. 

There's a pulsing warning from Dean in response, but it doesn't explode out of him, and Lucifer violently pulls at him, dragging his arm in a lock and using his other hand to brace against Dean's shoulder. “Not going to try and burst my vessel?” Lucifer ridicules in his ear.

“I...” Dean tries to wrench away from him, hissing when he fails.

“Can't? Won't?” Lucifer finishes. Well, that's a mutual feeling. “So I think you should just go to your meeting.”

Dean goes limp and Lucifer loses his hold on him in surprise, and Dean shrinks away from him. That pulse still surrounds him, like a waiting trap, and Dean holds his sore arm in a distress that doesn't fade. 

“Well, look at that,” Lucifer says, “you _can_ still feel emotions.” 

Dean's eyes go wide. “What—”

Lucifer shrugs. “I wondered. I thought the New Year broke you. You know, completely this time.”

Dean fights for words, but nothing comes out. Lucifer walks up to him and takes him by his uninjured arm, and there's a bit of fear in him that Dean's waiting trap _will_ snap—there's a lot Lucifer can heal his vessel from, but he doesn't think that's something even as an archangel he can just brush off—but Dean goes with it this time, watching Lucifer like he's lost his mind. 

A reasonable conclusion, Lucifer thinks. 

He pulls him into the empty bar and forces Dean to sit down at one of the tables and fetches him a drink before settling in across from him. Dean drinks it in silence while Lucifer stares up at the rafters. 

“I'm not a coward,” Dean mumbles sometime after Ligthart makes his appearance. The dragon does a double-take at Dean's presence, and then at Lucifer, but he stays away when Lucifer glares at him. 

“No, I don't think you are,” Lucifer agrees.

“Then why—!”

Lucifer cocks his head at him. “It was a surefire way to set you off.”

Dean stares. “You _wanted_ me to fight you.”

“There _was_ a risk of making things worse,” Lucifer says. He'd have to be blind to not notice the haunted way Dean reacted in any of the fights Lucifer got him out of. “But it worked out.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“Yes,” Lucifer admits. “You could have.” 

Dean just shakes his head in confusion.

“You're more useful to me when you're not in hiding,” Lucifer tells him. It's better than saying that he may have been _concerned_ that Dean wasn't going to recover this time.

“No, I'm not,” Dean scowls.

“Maybe. But your potential increases. And anyway, wasn't the Circle's last standing plan for you was just making use of your visibility in the city, and all your _mundane_ actions?”

“I guess,” Dean answers. “How's 'hiding' different than being a coward?” 

“Do you really want the answer to that?” Lucifer asks, watching him carefully.

It makes Dean wary, but then he nods.

“You're very damaged,” Lucifer tells him bluntly. “If you hadn't been Michael's vessel for three centuries, if you'd been living in this world and hiding still, regardless, I'd call you a coward.” He folds his arms and glances away. His grace is soothing over his broken rib. He feels vulnerable, but not because of that. “I can't blame you for wanting to hide.” 

Lucifer stays for the rest of the meeting, contributing nothing, but keeping anyone from wandering too close to inquire why Dean's been MIA for the last few meetings. He thinks he hears Dean mumble a _“hey, thanks”_ but when he looks over, Dean's occupied elsewhere, and he wonders if he simply imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I did not plan for that fight to break out. Don't you love when writing catches you off guard?


	61. 61

**61**

Friday, February 5, 2320

Dean slinks over to Hava's table after the meeting starts to clear out. He waits, keeping silent as she likes, until she's finished up her notes before tilting her head to look up at him. “Yes?”

“I-I've been thinking of doing something, and it's maybe kind of... big, but I thought you'd be the best one to help me.”

There's a spark of interest in the kitsune's eyes. “Oh?” She points at one of the empty chairs at her table and waits for him to sit, then asks, “What are you thinking?”

“You... You gave me all those reports awhile back, remember?” He watches her nod. “I...” He licks his lips, head dipping down in his uncertainty, words failing him. Instead, he takes out the several-times folded paper from his pants pocket and holds it out to her.

She frowns, but takes it, and unfolds it atop the table.

> **STATUS REPORT**  
>  _Friday, January 1, 2320_
> 
> THESE WERE YOUR HEROES  
>  THEY DIED FOR THEIR BELIEF IN FREE WILL  
>  THEY DIED FOR YOU  
>  REMEMBER THEM

The list of names goes down the rest of the page, continuing to the back. Narrowed down and sorted by countries and alphabetical by surname, followed by the year of their death if Dean had that information.

“It's... just an example,” he says quickly. “The actual list is... a lot more pages.”

She flips over the page, taking her pen and writing on the bottom of it, before she passes it back to him.

> If you have any reports, _any names_ from before 2314, send them to 1334 Grand Blvd, Kansas City, MO.

“I think it's a good idea,” she says.

“I don't know how he mass produced the reports, or how he got them delivered,” Dean says.

“Same way he did anything.”

“Monsters, yeah, I get it. But the _specifics_...” 

She nods. “I'll have to ask around. I believe he used dragons to cross the seas, and used every other monster as the distributors.”

Dean pauses, dragging at his words. “Messenger Dragons,” he says slowly.

“Don't say that to Ligthart and Kuehner. They'll be very mad.”

“Oh? Who will be mad?”

Dean jerks, speechless in the face of the sudden appearance of Arrel at Hava's back. 

“Hello, Arrel,” Hava says, perking up in a way that Dean hasn't seen before. “We're going to send out a new report,” she explains. “The Dean Winchester Report, instead of the Commandant's.”

“Don't call it that,” Dean says.

Hava grins, and gestures at the other empty chair. Dean has the intense desire to _run_ when Arrel sits between the two of them; he hasn't seen the other kitsune since she had the smart idea to try and test Lucifer. It was ballsy, he'll give her that. It should have given her some points in Dean's favor. 

Except she was toying with him like a cat with a mouse and frankly Dean's been glad that he hasn't seen her since the summer. 

Arrel picks up the paper and Dean stamps down the urge to rip it from her hands. “It would reiterate how much things have changed to the humans,” Arrel says. Her finger skims the page until it lands on the short United States section that Dean had put in for his example, eyes tracing each name like she expects to know someone. “I know there are already confused people. They haven't had a report in such a long while. There was no Lord's Address. We keep telling humankind that the Commandant is gone, but I think they've only just started to maybe believe it.”

“Do you think sending a report like this is only going to make things harder instead of easier?” Dean asks.

The sharp eyes that she looks at him with are startling but they're not the wickedness that she turned on him when he thought she was trying to kill him. 

“They're always expecting a trap,” she answers. “But this?” She flicks a finger to the page. “They may be cautious, but their confusion will only double, wondering how _remembrance_ could amount to a trap.”

“Arrel, do you know where he printed his reports?” Hava asks. 

“I imagine he didn't go down to Kinko's,” Dean says. 

“New York City, potentially, as one of the places,” Arrel says after a bit of thought. “And if they get printed, you can give them to the prophet.”

“She can hand them to the Circles and they can hand them out to the populace?” Dean adds.

She bobs her head in agreement. “I believe most cities operate like ours and have several patrols.”

“And you—are you on a patrol?” Dean asks before he can think better of it. 

There's a flash of deviousness in her eyes and Hava huffs softly. Arrel says, “Maybe I am. Have you been hiding from me, Winchester?” 

“She's not,” Hava says, stopping the argument before it can begin.

“I mean,” Arrel sings, “we're _all_ a bit of a patrol unit sometimes.” 

_Right_. “Well, I'm not avoiding you,” Dean says. 

“Oh, yes,” Arrel responds, “you're just avoiding _everyone_.”

She may as well have dug her claws into him again with how much that hurt. To have someone he doesn't even _know_ , doesn't ever _see_ , to call him out on this... Does everyone think it, really? Do they pass word among one another that no one's seen Dean out and about recently? That they always see Adam around all parts of the city but, no, Dean's the shut-in? That hides? Despite even _Lucifer_ saying he can't blame Dean for wanting to—

“Arrel,” Hava berates. 

Arrel tosses up her hand. “I agreed to not get into a brawl with him,” she argues, but then sighs. “It's getting late, can we go home?”

Dean blinks, the words barely registering even as Hava nods, collecting her things with Arrel's help. 

“This is a good idea, Dean,” Hava reminds him, tapping a finger to his page. 

“I'll find you a stupid printing press,” Arrel says, “but it'll take time, so try not to sulk _too_ much.”

“I—why?” Dean asks. 

“I _owe_ you,” she says, like those three words drove a knife into her. 

He blinks again, not quite understanding, but he stands and folds the paper back up and pockets it, following the two of them for the door. He considers suddenly if there was someone still hanging around to close up shop, or if they just leave things open 24/7. “Have a good night,” he tells them, watching them head in the opposite direction. 

_'Can we go home?'_

Huh.

Dean grins, and makes his way for his own home.


	62. 62

**62**

Monday, February 15, 2320

It's taking longer than Dean's expecting for his bookstore clerk to return. Another patron enters and they don't cower when they see Dean at the register, which is nice until they turn the lock on the door and flip the sign to Closed.

Dean is on high-alert in an instant, eyes skirting around in worry.

“She's not here. I told her to leave; humans still so naturally follow orders from monsters,” he says, vampire fangs extending. “I didn't want her to have to get involved, she seems so nice.”

Dean backs away, hand straying to his side. “What do you want?” he asks.

“What I _want_ is to sink my teeth into your neck and tear your throat out, but I can't _do_ that—I can't lay a _hand_ on you without risking that angel of yours decapitating me.” The fangs retract. “So I'm going to tell you a story.”

“A story,” Dean repeats. “Is that why—is that why we're in a bookstore?”

“We're here because it's the _one_ place that you reliably go alone.”

Awesome. A stalker.

“Do you know how many humans were turned into monsters the night that the Commandant took control?”

“I—no,” Dean says, even though the whispered answer is there, but he shields away from it.

“I was turned that night,” he says, and there's a pitch to his voice, lilting on the stale air, “and do you know what Michael's commands were?” 

Dean doesn't reply. He doesn't think he's supposed to.

The vampire _smiles_ and it doesn't fit right with the rest of his face. “Go _home_ ,” he bites, “go to your family— _infect_ your family.”

Dean recoils. The vampire advances on him, and Dean has no choice but to back up into the aisles of books. 

“So I went home!” he shouts at Dean, angrily swiping a hand along the Nonfiction shelves. “And I infected my wife and my daughter only—they-they didn't _survive_ the change. And I didn't care. I was already moving on. Because I was Michael's _puppet_ ,” he spits.

“I—”

“He implanted the number in our heads. There were four-hundred ninety-one _thousand_ , nine hundred and eighteen _human beings_ in Kansas City that night—all similar orders, the ones that got infected, that is. Find and turn your loved ones. And maybe most of them survived the change, unlike my family.”

“I don't—I don't know what you want me to _say_ —”

“I _want you_ to feel the pain!” he roars. 

Dean holds open his arms, trembling. “So kill me,” he offers. 

“No. I want you to suffer. I want you to think about every _monster_ that woke up, remembering _three-hundred years_ later what they did that night. That they didn't get to _grieve_ for _centuries_.”

“Please, I—”

“The Circle continuously rules in your favor,” he says, dropping his arms. “But humanity—the humanity of the _past_? They will _never_ forgive you.”


	63. 63

**63**

Monday, February 15, 2320

“Dean.”

“Fuck,” Dean sobs, pressing his arms into his face to block the blotches of tears, “ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, “I'm not even _bleeding_ can you just leave me _ALONE_?!”

Dean's sitting in the Horror section, his back to the shelves, knees drawn up tightly to his chest. 

“You weren't at the Circle meeting. Ligthart was... worried.”

Dean drops his arms and screws his expression into anger as best he can. “Oh _yeah_? What did he do, _phone_ you?”

Lucifer taps a finger to the side of his head. “Something like that.”

Dean grimaces and swears softly because if _Ligthart_ prayed to Lucifer then...

Well. It's a little less shitty than Dean's prayer to Lucifer had been.

He ignores Lucifer standing there and fishes out his phone. Two missed calls: Ligthart and Kuehner. He throws the phone into the shelves across from him and folds his arms up again to hide his head and hopes Lucifer will give up and leave. Dean's fine. The damn hellhound would've caused a stir if he hadn't been. 

Of course, now if the people that hate Dean know they can just get _creative_ when they attack him in order to avoid provoking Lucifer... his peace spell might be over.

A “story” hurts a helluva lot more than a bite wound, Dean thinks.

“Do you want to die?”

Lucifer's voice is so quiet Dean thinks he imagined it. 

Dean shudders. He doesn't lift his head. “I thought, maybe, we could fix things. Change... everything,” he says, only loud enough for Lucifer to hear him. “Undo my mistake.” He hits his head back into the books, staring upwards. “Hell, it's 2320, humans are supposed to be more than this, right? But we're just... we're _stuck_. He made us as small as he made your Dad. Maybe... Maybe if Chuck gets strong enough... he can just make another draft. Because really. What's the point anymore?”

“Dean,” Lucifer says in that same tone, “do you want to die?” he repeats.

Dean's breathing stutters. “I don't know? Sometimes?” He pauses, then, in barely a whisper, “... Most times.”

Lucifer nods, and Dean's freakishly relieved that the devil doesn't make a big deal out of it, just from how _much_ he's poked and prodded Dean all this time over it. The only thing Lucifer does is reach a hand out to him.

“Come on,” Lucifer says. “Let's get you back.”

Dean takes it.


	64. 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPFQ5W2apIo&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=5) Palemote by Slow Meadow

**64**

Tuesday, February 16, 2320

“Aw, we missed Valentine's Day,” Adam says suddenly. 

Michael is very confused. _“What?”_

“Never mind,” Adam laughs. Adam's made it all the way to the actual Kansas side of Kansas City, path diverting from where he'd been walking alongside a rugaru on their patrol. He doesn't intend to go much further, sitting on the river bank and staring out at the Missouri side. “Holidays are a thing of the past. But I wonder if there are any annual traditions that have crept in and remained under the radar. Like a secret handshake.”

Michael sits down besides him. _“Humans have a way of achieving the unexpected. Just because he had eyes everywhere doesn't mean he_ understood _everything he was seeing.”_

Adam looks to him, delighted. “Were there things _you_ didn't understand, way back when?”

_“Oh, plenty. In fact, I could say_ most _things I didn't understand. I only do now because of you.”_

“I make a pretty good guide, if I do say so myself,” Adam beams. He picks up a rock and tries to skip it across the river's surface. It thunks in with a splash and he chuckles. 

Michael hums and studies the water and every rock in their vicinity. Adam feels the pull of the world shift, resonate, every molecule in communion with the celestial soul. He's curious as Michael's existence sidles along his, reaching out to select a rock and then expertly skipping it along more jumps than Adam's ever seen. Michael's grace is alive with pride and Adam mirrors it. 

“You're such a dork,” Adam says, overflowing with emotions. Michael allows the world to fade back to Adam's _human_ senses; Adam always finds the extreme-angel awareness of the universe fascinating, but only in short bursts. He's taught Michael how to appreciate their surroundings as a human would. It doesn't have to be complex for it to be beautiful. 

_“You don't usually go out this far,”_ Michael says to him. _“Is everything okay?”_

“Yeah, it's fine. I guess I just feel a little stir crazy.”

_“I can take us anywhere in the world. Anywhere you want,”_ he offers.

“I know. I like walking. It feels more like I'm taking _myself_ somewhere. Flying just feels like I'm trying to escape.”

Michael reaches out and puts his hand over Adam's. _“That doesn't have to be a bad thing.”_

“No, of course not. Maybe I'm just being stubborn. It's fine. Besides, the tension's sort've eased up lately.” Adam makes a face. “Weirdly. Never thought Lucifer being around on a regular basis would make things _easier_.”

_“Yes... I find it impressive. Dean's still on occasion being a recluse, but just before I think we'll lose him again...”_

“Lucifer snaps him out of it.”

_“Don't fight with what works, I suppose.”_

“If being around Lucifer so much bothers you... I _can_ leave, if you want.” 

Michael thinks on that. Through Adam, he picks up another rock, but Adam doesn't feel the same analysis that went into it before; the rock still makes it a few hops before plopping under its ripples. Adam finds _this_ gesture more endearing than the last. 

_“No,”_ Michael says eventually. _“I'm interested in what's becoming of my brother. I think this is the first time we've... found some semblance of agreement since before his Fall.”_

“Then we'll stick around,” Adam says, like he's sealing a contract, “until one of us loses our mind.”

_“Agreed.”_


	65. 65

**65**

Thursday, February 25, 2320

“You know how you said back in January how I'd know what living alone felt like?” Adam says, his voice low. “Would it kill you to _leave_ once in awhile? For more than just the Circle meeting?”

Dean scoffs. “I live here.”

“You _embody_ here,” Adam snaps. 

Dean watches him pause, then twitches away from nothing—Michael, he thinks—and continues to pace around the living room. He doesn't look like he's been sleeping well, which is laughable since Adam doesn't _need_ to sleep. He wonders how he hadn't noticed sooner, and then decides he doesn't care. 

“So what?” Dean says, matching his tone. 

“So what?” Adam echoes. “Dean, you're like the furniture here. _Left behind_ relics from _Michael_.”

Dean reels like Adam hurled a curse at him—and for Adam, Dean supposes, Apocalypse Michael _would_ be a curse. 

He starts to retaliate, but Adam keeps going, “He discarded you and I'm sure wherever he ended up he's laughing it up because you _stayed behind_ like all his collector's pieces.”

“That's not true,” Dean says, frigid, and he doesn't recognize the discordant harmonies in his song. 

“Isn't it?” Adam bites out. “Maybe if you ever _go_ anywhere anymore. You don't even see the dragons for dinner! We could just prop you up on a pedestal and you're the same as all the artwork in this room.”

“I wonder what that makes you, then,” Dean whispers. His eyes narrow. His skin buzzes. He rubs a hand over his arm, feeling like he just might pop. He steps towards Adam. “Different Michael. You're still under this roof though. Just another _project_ of Michael's. Nothing more.”

Adam's eyes are fire and the tension that locks his muscles into rigidity is a slap to Dean's face and he jars backwards, his grip on his power easing as he recognizes a very, _very_ angry Michael now standing before him. 

Dean maybe went a little too far. If it was anyone else, he'd think he'd be justified. But poking holes into an actual stable relationship of _any_ Michael... Shit. 

And there's those _beautiful_ bindings that Dean hasn't seen in a long time. They're even allowed to time travel before they're allowed to kill anything, and isn't that just a testament to Apocalypse Michael's worldview. 

But Michael's bindings are pulled taut, straining, radiance dancing down the links and Michael manages to roll his arm through the air and Dean goes flying into a wall, breath knocked out of him. Dean is held up, even as Michael thrashes in place, the shackles eating into the skin around his wrists, flaking tissue off and exposing grace. 

Nothing says the God Plan has definitely been progressing like an archangel inflicting pain against the binding's parameters. 

“Michael,” Dean rasps, struggling against the hold. He shouldn't have been so quick to release his power. The discordance is still present; he can't get a firm grip to that out-of-sorts song. 

“You _dare_ ,” Michael seethes, “to insinuate that Adam...” His rage swallows the rest of his words. 

Dean's head falls back and he chokes, the force pushing in, an impossible, crushing gravity. 

The provoked growl that sounds through the room is startling to all parties. Dean hears Adaira somewhere directly in front of him, and Michael draws back in shock, and the bindings are a vicegrip once again, locking down his grace. Dean falls from the wall. 

“Is _that_ ,” Michael demands, angry.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Dean rumbles, pushing into a crouch. “My hellhound—by proxy.” Dean hides his surprise. He'd _thought_ her orders were to retrieve Lucifer, not play guard dog. Maybe she had assumed there would be no time, not when Dean had pissed off an archangel that was comparable to her master.

“Cute,” Michael says darkly.

Dean's smile is all teeth. “I've somehow kept her alive this long, so I think Lucifer's gonna be real pissed if you kill her.”

“A shame, then, that she's left protecting _a child_.”

“Adam, look, I'm sorry, okay?” And Dean thinks he's only admitting this because he doesn't actually want Michael killing Adaira, and isn't that fucked up that he's reached the time of his life where he's defending a _hellhound_. “I took it out on you, which is _stupid_ because you're my brother and you've been here for me. But I'm _not_ apologizing to Michael.”

Michael charges forward and Dean can _feel_ heat roll off Adaira's hidden form. “You _disgraceful_ —” but then he jolts and Michael is gone and it's just Adam looking tired. “I guess we all lose control of our emotions sometimes,” Adam says.

“Big city, but we're all in close proximity to each other,” Dean sighs. He thumps back against the wall and coasts down it to sit. “Adaira, cool your jets.” And he doubts she listens to him completely, but she stops growling like a motor engine. “We don't really have anywhere that we can just pocket people away from each other for a bit.”

“Yeah, you got that right. Michael will calm down eventually.”

“It's fine. I definitely know not to piss you off if I want to avoid dealing with _that_.”

“I shouldn't have... said what I did,” Adam says. He steps over to Dean, eyes skirting around like he's cautious of Adaira, before he folds his legs and sits across from him. “I'm just tired. I've been remembering Hell more lately. Which is... silly, I guess.”

“That's not silly, Adam.”

“But it is. I don't ever remember anything from Lucifer torturing Michael, or your brother. I just remember the unendurable silence.” 

“Not that I don't see your point about how I should get out more... but wouldn't that just make the silence worse?”

Adam reaches up and rubs his thumb into his temple. “It doesn't match,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“The silence in my dreams doesn't match when I'm awake. It's exhausting. It feels like a trick. Like a different brand of torture.” He smiles, brief and sudden, and his shoulders ease. 

Dean wishes he could know what Michael _said_ just for Adam to look worlds better. 

“I can't promise anything,” Dean says. “But there's other rooms in this building I could work in. Give you some space.”

“No I...” Adam shudders. “I don't know what I want. I think if you just went back to your dragon dates that'd be enough. I think they miss you, anyway.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the choice of words, but he has to admit, he misses it, too. Misses them. They've kept their distance from Dean ever since Lucifer dragged him to a Circle meeting the end of January, seemingly understanding that Dean wasn't receptive to any helping, kind hands. 

“You're right,” Dean agrees, quiet. He chuckles. “Lucifer suggested once that I was part of their hoard.”

Adam laughs. “Really? I guess that's weirdly fitting.”

Dean's face falls. “Better to be part of a dragon hoard than Michael's collection,” Dean says.

Adam winces. “Seriously. I'm sorry. That was a real low blow.”

“Maybe it's time we redecorate a bit, huh?” Dean suggests. “I'm not really for moving, which I bet will one day put a target on my back. Everyone in the world must know where their 'Commandant' lived. But maybe also people just won't expect me to be here.”

Adam nods. “Despite its connotations it's a nice place. I don't see anyone _else_ moving in, so we might as well keep it claimed for ours. But redecorating, that'd be fun. Didn't you say people freaked out when you went bed shopping once?”

“Oh, yeah. This will be ten times worse. I kind of want to throw all the pottery down a stairwell, too. Last time I broke all his shit I wasn't coherent about it.” 

“It'll be cathartic,” Adam agrees. He tilts his head. “So. Hellhound? Michael nearly flipped his lid based on that alone.”

“I think Lucifer got fed up after I was attacked by Leviathans.”

“You know...” Adam chuckles, “I can't say I'm even surprised.”

“We good?”

“Yeah. We're good.”

It's a few days later when Lucifer pops in. His utter bafflement amuses the heck out of Dean. 

They changed out the pair of couches and rug—all of which they watched Ligthart and Kuehner burn. They kept the glass coffee table, and a few of the paintings that Dean hadn't grown completely sick of, but they did hurl all the pots and vases and abnormal sculptures down a stairwell.

It was a good bonding exercise, Dean thinks. 

Replacing the “relics” had been the harder part, until Adam had commented that there _were_ a lot of artists in the city, hiding in shadow, desperate to stay safe but still create. It didn't seem like a good idea to approach any of them, but Adam coaxed him along despite Dean's warnings that Adam _shouldn't be seen with Dean_. 

Dean knows Apocalypse Michael would have simply destroyed all of this, and that was maybe the only reason they let him and Adam into their sequestered-away studios. Dean knew shit about art, but he tried to offer genuine compliments and hoped to God that they were encouraging people, not scaring them away from everything they ever loved. Dean begged Adam, and the Circle, to keep an eye out for these artists. Foster their safety and don't _lose_ them. 

“You redecorated,” Lucifer says, whistling. 

“It was time for a change,” Dean answers. 

Lucifer nods, accepting. “Not bad, Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Turns out rage is a good motivator~~ >_>
> 
> Good dog.


	66. 66

**66**

Monday, March 1, 2320

Something Dean had said to Adam when they were fighting sticks with him, tumbling around his head and not leaving him alone. 

Dean gets to the Circle meeting unnaturally early, hoping to flag down Kuehner when she arrives. The bar's freakishly quiet empty as it is, and Dean's startled out of his daze when a glass is set down in front of him after a man came from somewhere in the back. Dean tenses, though he knows no one other than the Circle members would dare to come here, but his thoughts are shaking in an unsteady web as they try to grasp at why the face—his eyes—seem so familiar. 

“Sorry,” the man offers. “I try to avoid spooking you. You always have a crowd around you, hard not to accidentally set you off.”

Dean thinks of the vampire at the bookstore and he can't help the _not again_ that spikes through his head. He just never thought it'd be here. 

“You don't remember me,” the man says with a shrug. “That's fine. You weren't very with it at the time. I shouldn't have come at you the way I did. Pretty stupid. Thanks for not killing me, anyway.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Dean says. 

He waves a hand towards his head. “You got me right here after we all woke up,” he explains. “I thought you were still Michael.”

The eyes now solidify in Dean's wandering mind. Arachne. 

He remembers: _'_ You _—what's your game, Commandant? Why wake us up after all this time?'_ and he breathes, starting to panic.

“Hey—sorry, I didn't mean... shit.” The arachne rubs a hand over his neck and backs up a step. “Look, if I wanted to hurt you, don't you think I would've done it by now?”

“You said I always had a crowd around me,” Dean points out.

“True. I've thought about talking to Ligthart but I prefer to just keep things running around here and not too involved.”

It answered Dean's old question about how Howl at the Moon operated. 

“What do you want?” Dean asks. 

The man eases, only slightly. Dean hasn't stopped being tense, a hand on the sheathed angel blade in his jacket. 

“I just—I don't know if you've been expecting revenge or something from me and I wanted to... let you know I didn't have any hard feelings. Michael would have straight-up killed me and you didn't.” 

“I probably would have,” Dean admits, “had I been in any frame of right mind. Why wait to talk to me this long?”

“Ah... heard about your trouble with someone that was turned that night.”

Dean bristles. “Does everyone know my bullshit?”

“Generally,” the arachne admits, “not as much because of _you_ but because of monsters that go against the Circle.” 

“Which is any monster turned that night,” Dean sneers.

The arachne frowns. “No? What are you talking about?”

Dean feels like he's lost his footing. “Any monster that got turned on Christmas?”

“I got turned that night. Wasn't a fun process. Took _time_.” He shivers. “But I could point around this room during a full meeting monsters that were turned that night. There's quite a few. And they leave you alone just fine.”

Dean freezes, unable to process those words.

“If they're here... they've shoved down any bitterness and vengeance. They just want to help stabilize things. Maybe be a part of something when they never were before.” He tilts his head. “Did you think everyone turned that night hates you?” 

Dean looks away.

“That would be the majority of monsters in this city,” he continues.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. It makes _sense_ to Dean. But if there were monsters turned that night with the Circle it would shine some light as to why he struggled so long at the meetings, all the glares and hatred. 

“There are a lot of monsters that are Circle members that you don't know because they don't come here. They gives their reports and stay on their patrols and try to keep things functioning. A lot of nameless faces—to you, anyway. There are some that just say they're a Circle member and barely associate with us, but it means they aren't going to go against the declaration of _you_.”

“I didn't know,” Dean says, quiet. 

“Guess you wouldn't,” he replies. He tries to step forward again, and when Dean doesn't react, he takes a seat. “We don't all hate you. We don't all blame you.” He looks down. “Lemme tell you it was weird waking up. Depending what we did, what we were doing that night. Maybe getting ready to celebrate the holidays, getting together with family. Maybe not celebrating anything. And then suddenly finding out that the fucking devil is real and apparently _God_ and how rich that the latter was the second thing we found out.”

Dean can't help but grin.

The arachne continues, and maybe it's the first time he's _really_ been allowed to get it all out. “And alternate _worlds_ with the fact we were led by a crazy alternate version of another archangel that is _also_ here. O Saint Michael. What the hell? Oh, and Death. Just to not leave anything out.”

“When you put it like that,” Dean says, laughing, unable to help himself. He got introduced to all this in a slow decline of awfulness in a way that he didn't even fully _understand_. A whole lot of predetermined fuckery, starting with his mom and dad before he was even born. He can't imagine waking up after being controlled by an archangel for three-hundred years to learning _everything_ in nearly one-fell swoop.

“Not to make my life harder,” Dean starts.

“Isn't that all you do?” the arachne interrupts. 

“But wouldn't it be smarter to hate me?” Dean finishes.

The arachne shakes his head again. “Nah. That's the general Kansas City consensus. I think there's some support groups. So You Got Turned on Christmas. Some... Find Your Family resources. Really it's cliché but hatred is too exhausting, and ultimately will just get us killed by a dragon or an archangel. What's the point?” 

“And you run Howl at the Moon.”

“Someone's got to. Booze doesn't just spontaneously appear.” A wistful sigh, and then, “Wouldn't that be nice?” 

“Damn right it would.” Dean snorts. “What's your name?”

“Rosio.” 

“Glad I didn't kill you, Rosio,” Dean says, gaze alighting on Kuehner as she enters. 

“Yeah, me too.”

“Sorry, I gotta...” He scrambles away from the table. “Hey, can we talk?” 

“Your exuberance is _alarming_ ,” she says, leaning away. She looks over to the table he came from at Rosio. “He's not giving you any trouble, is he?”

“N-No. Not really. He's fine. Just caught me off guard. I guess he's wanted to talk to me for awhile.”

“He's the reason we knew you were archangel free. He brought it to Ligthart when we were in the early stages of forming the Circles.”

And that... that makes a lot of sense to Dean. He wondered what would have changed if he had killed Rosio instead of just stunning him. 

“He's not the reason I need to talk to you. I just—this is important.”

She rolls her shoulders and nods once. She leads him over to the bar and generously pours herself a drink and notably doesn't offer him one. 

He's fine with that. 

“It's about Purgatory,” he says.

“Ah, fantastic.” She downs her drink and pours a second helping. 

He imagines even for a dragon Purgatory wasn't a walk in the park, and it wasn't just because she missed having her virgin sacrifices. 

“Look.” He presses his hands together. “You said depending on when Michael drew you out of Purgatory, it changed dramatically how long you were there for.”

“Yes,” she confirms. 

“So if someone got put into Purgatory, say, 2020, and tried to pull them out from _now_ —if it was done _right_ , they'd only be _in_ Purgatory for a short while? For them, personally?”

She stares at him longer than he's comfortable with. “... Yes, I suppose so,” she eventually says. “But there is a _very_ high margin of error.”

“Even with _two_ archangels doing the spell calculations?”

She tilts her head side to side in thought, braids dancing. “It's... not impossible. That risk though...”

“What would you prefer? Getting stuck in Purgatory where you have a short lifespan—if you were human, anyway—or being tortured by Michael until he gets _bored_?”

She purses her lips. “Purgatory.”

“Why?”

She huffs and gives him a _look_ , like she knows that he already has the answer. “Because it's _simple_ ,” she says. “It's quick. It makes _sense_. Michael's logic was flawed.”

“Exactly,” Dean agrees. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Kuehner rebukes. “You can't really be considering this.”

“I have two archangels that have their wings loosened enough that they can time travel. They can't... pluck a human out of time like Lucifer plucked Michael. But if we can just... pocket someone out of the way for a bit...”

She mutters under her breath. He imagines she's calling him a various array of names. Then, she says, expression considering, “If _you_ find yourself in Purgatory again...”

“I ain't going back to Purgatory,” Dean interrupts. “That isn't in the cards.” 

“ _If_ ,” she tells him. “And you come across a dragon. Tell them: I've been granted the breath of Kuehner the Behemoth, give me pardon.”

He blinks at her, uncertain what to say, then, “'Behemoth?'”

Kuehner finishes the rest of her drink with a smile. Other members of the Circle are beginning to show. “I've heard that bold, reckless moves were what the Winchesters were known for,” she tells him. “It seems you're starting to sound more like yourself.”

That comment _resonates_ with Dean.


	67. 67

**67**

Tuesday, March 2, 2320

“You want to _what_?” Lucifer demands.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy!” Dean replies.

“Crazy,” Lucifer repeats, “Crazy is putting it _gently_. You've cracked. At last.” He looks to Michael and jabs a thumb in Dean's direction. “He's finally snapped.”

“It's not impossible!” Dean argues. 

“Dean,” Lucifer sighs, “if you want to offer your family the mercy of a quick death, I'll go back and kill them myself. None of this...” 

“Absurdity,” Michael offers. 

Lucifer nods in agreement. 

“If you two boneheads just put your minds together on the spellwork, Kuehner thinks there's a _chance_. A very minor chance, but a chance nonetheless!”

“Did he just call us 'boneheads?'” Michael asks.

“Seems so,” Lucifer says. 

“What happened to 'up our forces,' huh?” Dean says to Lucifer. “If they die, they die, what harm does that do to you?” 

“I don't particularly need your psyche breaking,” Lucifer tells him, “when your harebrained scheme fails. Castiel, if I remember correctly from my sidesaddle ride along his dome, will be hunted to the nines by the Leviathan—worse than you, here, Dean. Jack, with or without his power, will just be the equivalent of the sun, big ol' 'come and get me' sign for all to see, complete with gaudy arrows pointing him out. Sammy, _well_ , Sam's kill count is up there with yours. And you want to drop them all into that slaughterfest.” 

“If we do it right, they won't be there long. I survived a year, they can survive a couple of hours.”

“Your optimism at our skill actually astounds me,” Lucifer says. “You do realize how _massively_ we can miscalculate this, right?” 

“I know,” Dean answers. He hesitates, gaze skipping to Michael before looking back to Lucifer. “Please. This might be the only way.”

Lucifer tosses up his arms and walks away. “Don't come crying to us when everyone dies!”

“They're dead, anyway,” Dean says. 

Lucifer drops his arms and looks over his shoulder. “Fine. We'll need supplies.”

“There's a ritual room two floors down. Room #22. And Michael recovered a lot of components from the bunker. Anything else that comes up I'll see if the Circle can scrounge for, or know where to look.”

“This will take awhile,” Michael says. “Days, potentially.”

“So don't get eaten while we're working,” Lucifer directs at Dean. 

“Fucking... I don't _try_ to get eaten, Lucifer!” 

“Just stay out of danger.”

Again, Dean doesn't _try_ to get into the problems that he does. His _preference_ is staying out of them. He doesn't put up a fuss though. They _are_ trying to work on Dean's crazy, absurd, harebrained scheme. Maybe they're just humoring Dean, but planning for days of work sounds like more than that. 

He helps them gather what Michael lists off—mostly just a plethora of paper, and some books—bringing the supplies to a conference room further down the same hall as the ritual room, watching as they spread out and start throwing around ideas about _how_ to narrow down their calculations. 

There was a reason Dean had said if they _worked together_. He wonders if Adam is sitting back, too, equally fascinated by listening to them in complete cooperation, insults put on the backburner as they tackle the different angles. 

Dean hears talk of the pieces that are logical even to him: when someone gets into Purgatory and how much time has actually passed. It gets weirder when they mention BS with the moon and stars and the alignments of the planets both in the past and the present and even some far-out crap about tide tables.

That last one Dean thinks is just to make him fed up and leave the room, but he stubbornly curls up in a leather chair in the corner and sleeps, lulled by their debates. When he wakes it's to the sun piercing the windows and his body is aching from his cramped seating, but he feels weirdly well-rested. 

Lucifer and Michael are still at it, but their time for staging has passed, both scribbling down notations and on occasion passing pages back and forth to each other for a second set of eyes. Dean finds himself smiling before he catches himself, and shakes out of it. 

He slips out of his chair and heads for the door, determined to not disturb their peace. 

He hears Lucifer call, “Adaira, protect him.” Which is... frighteningly overcautious. Dean hears the chuff of a response. He remembers Adaira squaring off with Michael and wonders if Lucifer even _needed_ to make it a command, though this way she stays to fight instead of leaving to pull Lucifer from the work that Dean _asked him_ to do. 

Dean bites down on the _you're not my keeper_ reply, and instead says, “I'll be fine.” He looks towards Michael. “Have Adam text me if you guys need anything.” He sees Michael nod, and Dean leaves the room. 

His first thought had been that it was morning, but a glance at his phone had threw that in the trash; it was late afternoon, the sun having already made half its trip across the sky. He'll have the Circle meeting to get to. 

He toys with his phone in thought. After his fight with Adam, he did, finally, ask the dragons if they wanted to do dinner. It had almost been more awkward and stunted than the first time they forced him out with them. 

He opens the text window before he can second guess himself, and sends a message to the pair of them:

>>Dinner before the meeting? 

They swing by to gather him, and it goes better than their previous dinner. 

“Lucifer and Michael are doing math,” Dean tells Kuehner, and he explains to Ligthart what the plan was. 

“You're insane,” Ligthart, expectantly, answers. Dean's gotten used to everyone's response. He realizes he hasn't heard Adam's opinion, but he doubts there's much variance. He'll also have to apologize for getting Adam locked into the math session for however long. 

Maybe he should suffer it out in solidarity. 

The Circle meeting, he thinks, is an immediate problem. Arrel is present, glaring at him the entire time from where she shares Hava's table. Dean loses track of anything that gets said, and is ready to _bolt_ the moment it comes to a close. He said he was going to stay out of danger! The Circle meeting _shouldn't be any danger_! Of all the places he should be safe, this is it! He's safer here than he is at home! 

Arrel, fast as a fox, is blocking his path, and he honestly thinks she's going to eat him before Adaira would ever be able to make a sound. He backs away, hands up, palms out. And then Arrel is mewling loudly, Hava at her side—Dean never saw her _move_ —hand in Arrel's hair almost as a restraint. 

“Not funny,” Hava tells her. 

“I think it was very funny,” Arrel answers, wiggling against Hava's hold until Hava releases her. Arrel straightens and combs both her hands through her hair to smooth it back out. 

“What's going on?” Dean asks warily. 

“I found your printing press,” Arrel answers. 

That—wasn't at all what Dean had expected to hear. 

“You get me the full report, I'll get it all squared away. You'll have all the copies you'll need in, mmm, maybe a little over a month, maybe two. I haven't decided if I want to use 'normal' mail services which are deathly slow.”

“... There's postal services?” Dean asks. He remembers Hava writing on the bottom of his drafted report, but he didn't think... 

She stares at him. “You're really dumb,” she finally answers.

“I like to call it blissful ignorance so I don't go catatonic for a month.”

“... Right. You know, that makes a lot of sense.” She sighs. “I may just hire some runners, unless your angels aren't preoccupied.”

“They're... going to be for awhile,” Dean admits. Not just because of their work, but if Dean's plan has _any_ chance to succeed, they'll be at it for some time. That, plus their usual, respective Heaven/Hell efforts... It's just better to avoid it. “I can provide payment,” Dean adds. 

She nods. “That might be the way to go about it then.”

“There are still... cars you know.” 

She scoffs. “Roads only slow us down. We have speed, stamina, and don't have to worry about needless things like fuel. I've got some hires in mind.”

“I thought you were going to eat me,” Dean says, “but thank you.” 

“Just having some fun,” Arrel says airily. “Hava doesn't appreciate my sense of humor.”

“No, I don't,” Hava agrees. “Not when there's a hound deciding your threat level, waiting to go in for a kill.”

“Wait, you know about—”

Hava looks to an empty spot near Dean, where he guesses Adaira must be.

“My senses are keener than most,” Hava explains. “Arrel _should_ be able to sense the danger.” Hava looks to her sharply. “You're being careless.” 

Arrel tenses, eyes tracing where Hava had been looking, and there's tension in her posture as she refocuses on Dean, voice low, hissing, “What is that about? When'd you get a _guard dog_?”

Dean smirks. “October.”

She springs back a step.

“If I find out people know about it,” Dean says in warning, “I'm going to know you were the one that spread it. And Lucifer's the one that put her on me.”

“My lips are sealed,” Arrel answers seriously. “Get Hava the full report for Friday's meeting.” 

He doesn't think he's ever seen Arrel _scared_ of him. Hava grins in approval, so Dean knows he hasn't offended her by threatening her—girlfriend? Dean never did ask. It was hardly his business. 

He goes home and sleeps, then spends his Thursday in the same room as the archangels, taking over an end of the conference table and scrutinizing his own work, checking that everything is in order. If this is going to be sent out to the entire goddamn world, he needs _perfection_. Even if mistakes would make him seem _human_ , this is in honor of the deceased.

If there's one thing he isn't going to screw up, it's this. 

(The pages of calculations had tripled in size since Dean had left.) 

Michael crumples the page he's been scribbling at and leans back in his chair, squinting at Dean. “What are you working on?”

“The culmination of everything I've ever read since waking up,” Dean answers tiredly. By now the sun's started to set. Dean would still like to sleep at some point, and he thinks even if he didn't get this finished by tomorrow's Circle meeting, he could just text Hava for a later hand-off date. But he kind of wants to meet the deadline. Feel like he's accomplished something. 

“That's quite the statement,” Lucifer says into his notes. 

“I'm sending out a new report,” Dean says. “Listing all the executed, and then some, since 2314. In honor instead of mockery.”

Lucifer looks up. “What?”

“Arrel—that kitsune that faked trying to kill me once—found a printing press. I'll have Ruth deliver them to the Circles, and pass them on from there.” He realizes he hasn't told either of them that he'd been planning this. Hava's approval was really the only one he felt he needed. Their _disapproval_ would hardly stop him, but... 

“Dean,” Michael's voice is so soft that Dean looks to him only to understand that it is Adam, “that's amazing.” 

Dean flushes. Scratch that. Hava _and_ Adam's approval were all he needed. 

“Ruth's family is on that list,” Lucifer says, returning to his work, “she'll be happy to carry out the deliveries.” 

Dean nods. He remembers reading the names of the Seckel family. Remembers Ruth's cutting _'Michael killed my family for their defiance'_. 

“They should be ready in two months tops,” Dean says. 

“I'll be sure she gets them,” Lucifer agrees. 

He'd braced himself for blatant disregard and the response is... more than he could have hoped for. 

He sleeps, makes his final touches the next day, and hands the report off to Hava. 

Lucifer and Michael announce their completion somewhere into the night. Dean had flung himself again into the leather chair—his gambit for solidarity with Adam. 

Four days, Dean thinks. Four days of _math_ , nonstop as far as Dean could tell. There was a sea of discarded options on the floor, but the winners were spread out across the table, six simple sheets. 

“I do like my loopholes,” Lucifer allows, staring down at the completed calculations and spellwork, his pride something that's easy to look at—justifiable and not blinding to Dean. He tilts his head to Dean. “Now all we need is a date.” 

“I know the date you can use. Don't jump in my head for this one.” He's not imagining Lucifer's relief. “December 23rd, 2020,” he tells him.


	68. 68

**68**

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

Lucifer's awfully glad that he can't just easily arrive into the bunker proper. It gives him time to breathe through the wreck of his body, try to clean up the blood dribbling from his mouth and recover from the tilt of the world. The time travel trips should be getting _easier_ , not harder, and that's worrisome to him.

Now all he can hope is that Dean didn't screw up his timing. But the date makes sense to Lucifer; it's two days after he was here _last_ , and before Christmas Eve. 

When he waltzes into the bunker it feels more real, not like he's going to crumple with one glare. Dinner, Dean had said. They'd be having dinner, because Jack was alive and better and it was the turning point of things starting to look _up_ before they all exploded to Michael's delight. 

He really hates his not-brother. 

_“—and that son of a bitch is gonna pay.”_

“ _About_ that,” Lucifer interrupts, stepping in, hands out in defense even as all four of them are up in arms. “Look. I know no one here is happy to see me,” he speaks as quickly as he can, “and loathe as I am to offer, Jack here can do his tell-the-truth thing which should barely even hurt his soul, right? So let's just...” He draws back a step as Castiel comes for him, but then Castiel lurches away last minute.

“Cas?” Dean growls. 

“What,” Castiel says, face twisting. “You're not—from here...”

“ _No_ ,” Lucifer says.

Castiel shakes his head and backs up to the table. “That's,” another shake, “a lot. That doesn't feel right.”

“It's several centuries so I can imagine it's a bit rough to look at.”

“Cas?” Sam asks. “What's going on?”

“He's from the future,” Castiel says. “ _Very_ far from the future.”

“Jack,” Lucifer says.

“Jack, we _just_ got you better, I don't think—” Dean is saying.

“ _Yeah_ , that's why it has to be now,” Lucifer interrupts, taking the distraction to shift his uneasy gaze from his son. “We don't have a lot of wiggle room, see.”

“'We?'” Dean demands.

Lucifer cringes and points at him. “Future you. Future... Michael. _This_ world's Michael, that is.”

“ _What_?” Dean shouts. “Shouldn't I be _dead_ by then—” He breaks off.

“Do you really want to know?” Lucifer asks, uncomfortable. “No one is going to believe anything I say if I'm not forced to speak the truth.” He claps his hands together. “I do not like how it feels and yet here I am, offering.”

Jack looks to the others for guidance. “I'll be fine,” he says, like he's trying to get himself to believe it. 

“I don't like this,” Dean says. “It feels like a trap.”

“We thought about sending Michael but it seemed in poor taste.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have sent anyone!”

Lucifer shrugs. “It was your idea.”

“You know _what_ ,” Dean says, starting towards Lucifer, only to be stopped by Castiel putting his arm out. 

Ignoring them, Jack steps around and raises his hand, even as Dean snaps _“don't”_ and his eyes glow as he says to Lucifer, “Tell us why you're here.”

Lucifer jerks, curses, feels the familiar tug at his grace, overwriting his senses. His own power spiderwebs out from around his eyes and he feels as faint as he had when he jumped time. 

“Michael retakes Dean against his will. He possesses monsters on the planet and captures the world and subjugates the remainder of humanity. God and the Darkness are helpless. Everyone else in this room is tortured and killed. Year 2319 and Dean manages to pray and God resurrects me and expels Michael.” He gasps and shifts, unaware of the reactions his words are drawing. “Dean came up with a plan to pocket people into Purgatory and pull them out in the future wherein no time passes in Purgatory. Save his family.”

“Why are _you_ helping?” Jack demands. 

“Bound up in the future. God needs to be empowered.”

Jack drops his hand shakily and Lucifer staggers. 

“Jack?” Sam asks, reaching out worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“I'm... I'm fine.”

“You said the other Michael was there? How's he still alive?” Dean asks.

“He wasn't,” Lucifer answers. “I pulled him from another time before he was killed.”

“And you can't do the same with us?” Sam tries. 

“He can't,” Castiel says. “An archangel will adapt to the shift in time, but a human?”

“Gavin did,” Sam argues. “It's just the past that caught up with him.”

“Eventually time would have as well,” Castiel says. “What Crowley did only gave him longer to live, but it wasn't going to work forever.” 

“Okay, but then won't time catch up to us, too?” Sam asks. 

Lucifer scratches at his chin. “Not really.”

Dean, who has been staring silently, angrily, at Lucifer for awhile now, speaks up, “It doesn't matter because it happens soon.”

Lucifer spreads his hands. “Yeah.”

“Can't we just stop Michael if we know what happens?” Jack asks.

“Tried that,” Lucifer says. “Just in the same way _you_ can't escape to Purgatory, or just _off_ yourself, Dean,” Lucifer tells the Hunter. 

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Dean shouts, grabbing a knife from the counter and holding it to his neck. 

“Dean—” three voices twine together. 

Lucifer's gaze goes cold. “Don't,” he warns. 

Dean grins darkly. “What? Michael doesn't get me, right? He doesn't get his so-called _perfect_ vessel? Even if he holes up in some other poor sod, he'll be weaker.”

Same Winchester, same argument, three-hundred years apart. 

Lucifer steps towards him and the lights flicker as he feels the potent _static_ of power and there's almost _longing_ there; something he keeps coming home to every time he jumps backwards. 

“If you die, Michael still goes through with his plan one way or another. If there is no you, there is no prayer, there is no God, there is no me or my brother to time travel,” Lucifer explains, voice low. It isn't the first time he's had to walk through this thought process. “In trying to 'help' you cause time to collapse.”

Dean's hand wavers. He shakes his head. “Fate can suck it,” he argues. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Lucifer says. 

The stark difference between the two Deans is difficult to come to terms with. One in the future who's accepted the press of Fate, the other in the past still resolute to rail against it. 

Lucifer hadn't predicted that _this_ is what he'd have a hard time dealing with. 

“You can get everyone to safety still,” Dean says.

“No, I can't. They would still be in Purgatory, because there would be no one to pull them back out.”

Dean makes a pained sound and lowers his hand. “Fuck,” he hisses, and throws the knife onto the table. 

Sam grabs it, like he thinks his brother will still change his mind.

“So,” Lucifer says into the silence. “We've ran the numbers, but there's still a very high risk. The chance for failure is lower if we send one at a time.”

“I'll go,” Sam says.

“No, Sam,” Castiel argues. “If this... indeed works... it's better that I go first, so that I can assess the situation.”

“But you won't be able to pass the information back to us,” Sam reasons. 

Castiel ignores him and looks to Lucifer. “How do we do this?” he asks. “Is there... somewhere I should try to go?”

“You're an angel in Purgatory,” Lucifer answers blandly. “You'll be easy to find.” 

He wills the rift into existence, making a flourishing gesture and bowing deeply. “After you, Castiel.” The stony glare he gets in response fills Lucifer with enough glee that he can look up and give Jack a more intent once-over, keeping the frown from his face. “Time to go fishing,” he sings, and flies.

He needs a second opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They probably _could_ just jack people from one timeline to the other but??? idk that feels like cheating to me lmfao. I guess I have to make it complicated. 
> 
> ~~Purgatory Pocket Plan, say that five-times fast.~~


	69. 69

**69**

Saturday, March 6, 2320

Castiel's been running for hours. He slips into a familiar hiding spot, though it might be what kills him, and allows himself to even out his breathing. 

He hears movement nearby. 

“Didn't think I was supposed to be seeing your sorry face around here again.”

Castiel breathes. “ _Benny_.” He shifts from hiding, relieved to see the vampire. “You're still alive.”

Benny comes 'round the outcrop of boulders, tapping the familiar wicked weapon to a shoulder, grinning. “Don't let anyone else hear you say that. I've heard the rumors says I was torn apart by my own kind, and I'd like those to stay solid.”

“You shouldn't be out here if you're trying to keep a low profile.”

“No, I shouldn't, but you, _well_. I couldn't leave you hangin'.”

“Benny...”

“Let's keep moving. If I was able to track you this easily, so's everyone else.”

Castiel stares behind him, nervous. But Lucifer said they'd be able to find Castiel.

(If he dares for a moment think that Lucifer was telling the truth after he was no longer forced.)

Still... better him than Sam. He follows Benny. 

Later, while Benny cleans blood from his blade, paying no mind to the felled bodies, he asks, “What _are_ you doing here?”

“It's... complicated.”

“I kind of figured that much. You alone this time?”

“Yes... Dean is, well, apparently it's 2320 where he is now.”

Benny whistles. “How'd he get to live that long? Someone turn him?”

“He was possessed by an archangel,” Castiel answers. “It didn't go well. I'm... supposed to be getting picked up by a different archangel. As I said, it's complicated.” He spins as he hears sound in the distance. “We've got company.” 

“Mmm. Let's outrun them for now. I don't want to stay put in one spot for too long, lest your toothy pals come crashin'.”

“Agreed,” Castiel says, giving one more look to the woodline, and continuing on. He loses track of the time—Purgatory's endless lull awakening reminders in the depths of Castiel's mind. He didn't miss this realm. Didn't miss the inane battles, the running, the hiding. “If this really does work out... Sam, and a boy, will be through here. Could you... look after them?”

Benny cringes. “No can do. I would—really. But _you_ , you're a blinking neon sign for all to see; you cover up my own warning labels. You put me with humans? They'll be safer on their own. I'll only endanger them.”

Castiel nods. “Then come with me.”

Benny laughs. “What? No. I tried that, remember?”

“This is different,” Castiel argues. “This is a world run by monsters. And... I think Dean might need you, just as much as the rest of us.”

“Play the brother card, huh,” Benny says. “That's rude, angel.”

“I've learned from the best of them.”

Benny snorts. “Yeah, got that right.”

“If they have as much ease of access to Purgatory as they seem to imply—you can always come back, easier than... dying. Again.”

“I don't know, maybe a third death would be the charm,” Benny says, grinning. “Or maybe by then everyone will stop gunning for this beautiful mug.” He pushes away from the tree he'd been leaning against and sidles up to Castiel. “You think you can handle a ridealong?” 

Castiel had another (arch)angel possess the same vessel as himself. He thinks having a vampire's soul is nothing comparatively. “I think it will work,” he reasons. 

Benny shrugs. “Vamp soul riding with an angel. Now that's a new one.” 

“Yes.” 

“How long do you have before your pickup shows?”

“I... don't know.” Castiel is still expecting this was all some elaborate trap, but Lucifer had always just killed Castiel outright, not mess with him like this. 

“I don't want to leave you hangin' out to dry on your own.”

Castiel doesn't exactly either, but if Lucifer _does_ come to fetch him, there's no chance he'll let Benny live. 

“It's risky, but we should do the ritual now.”

“You sure?”

Castiel smiles. “No.”

Benny laughs. “Alright then.” He slices into his arm and then hands the blade to Castiel.

Castiel stares at it before using his angel blade to make a similar cut, chanting, “ _Conjuncti sumus_ , _unum sumus_ ,” and matching their arms together. He winces as his cut seals from the strength of the additional soul. 

It feels nothing like Lucifer had. Benny is... Benny is a lot. A soul slithering around in his body. Castiel wonders how Dean ever handled it. Necessity, he supposes. 

He looks around, tucking his arm close, and finds somewhere to try and keep low. He's not sure if Benny now acting as hitchhiker still makes him an active target or not. 

When the archangel that appears before Castiel is _Michael_ , Castiel freezes. He pulls his jacket sleeve more secure over the arm holding Benny's soul, careful. “Michael. I was... expecting Lucifer.”

“That's your mistake, not mine, Castiel,” Michael tells him, and Castiel wants to argue that, but the same similar rift that Lucifer had conjured is again drawn up by Michael. He hesitates, thinking he might just trust Michael _less_ than Lucifer. “Come along, brother,” Michael says. “I understand your concern, but you certainly can't stay in Purgatory.” 

The rift shudders. Castiel looks up at the meteor of black coasting across the sky. Shock trips through him. He jumps for the rift, and Michael falls into line behind him. The lightness that greets him is overwhelming compared to Purgatory's dull nature. He puts a hand over his eyes, frowning. He's startled when arms are suddenly clenched around him, and he drops his hand to stare at Dean. 

“It _worked_. Hell, it _actually worked_.”

Michael's eyes flash and a much warmer voice says, “Have some faith, Dean.” 

“I'm working on it,” Dean answers.

Castiel frowns. “... Adam?”

“Yeaaah,” Adam says. “Michael doesn't—he's not quite ready to deal with you.”

“Set a guy on fire and he holds a grudge,” Dean jokes.

There's a passing glare so cool on Adam's face, but it's gone in a second. 

“Where's Lucifer?” Castiel asks, looking around uncomfortably.

Dean pauses as he pulls away from Castiel. “Licking his wounds,” he says, and Castiel feels like he's missing something between those words that he can't decipher. “Even archangels don't like time travel. Michael's next up to the bat.”

Castiel nods in understanding, then he holds up his arm and draws back his sleeves. “Dean,” he says, even as Dean's eyes lock onto Castiel's crawling skin. “I... carried along a hitchhiker.”

“I-Is that...”

“Benny,” Castiel confirms.

“Cas—you...” Dean struggles with words. 

“He helped me, but thought he'd only hinder Sam and Jack, so I took him with me. Where did you bury his bones?”

“Here, I'll...” Dean moves away, ducking into a room and coming back with a piece of paper and a pen, jotting down notes and handing it to Castiel.

Castiel looks them over and files away landmarks. “I do wish to catch up, Dean,” he says firmly, eyes flicking to Adam and then back. “But this feels... unpleasant.”

“No, yeah, I get it—been there. He's a squirmer. Go. We'll talk when you get back. Michael's going to get Sam tomorrow. I'd go with you, but I...” Castiel doesn't know why he trails off. 

“I understand,” he answers, even though it's a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still mad about Benny.


	70. 70

**70**

Sunday, March 7, 2320

“How long does it take to resurrect a vampire?” Lucifer asks, after he's returned feeling a little better than when he arrived, and he'd been informed about where Castiel even went in a hurry. 

“Not long when you have wings,” Dean answers, “it's finding the grave that takes time. I should have just gone with him, but I... wasn't sure if you'd have any latent complications. Why?”

If Lucifer had “latent complications” he likely wouldn't have left Hell. Were it not for Castiel's presence, he would have simply stayed in the penthouse for safety sake. It's been _months_ but he's still wary that he's going to do something to his wing and go back to square one. 

“Michael,” he says, waiting until he gets his brother's attention.

“Yes?”

Lucifer is guarded, his eyes skirting to Dean before back to Michael, and it isn't missed by his brother. He sighs. “I need you to get a close look at Jack.”

“Why?” Dean beats Michael to the punch, which is exactly what Lucifer was hoping he _wouldn't_ do. “What's wrong?”

“He...” Lucifer licks his lips. “Doesn't feel right.”

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“You think he might not be able to come with us,” Michael says, turning some of the heat onto himself. 

Lucifer nods.

Dean looks between them, anger rising. “He's _basically_ an archangel, he should be able to travel like one!” 

“Right now he's not, he's nearly powerless,” Lucifer argues.

“Yeah?! And who's fault is that?” Dean yells.

Lucifer closes his eyes and steadies his breathing. He couldn't have this conversation _without_ Dean present. Doesn't even want to think what the results would be if it turns out Lucifer was _right_ about Jack, and he and Michael discussed it without him. 

“We can't know anything,” Lucifer says softly. “Michael will do his assessment. But, Dean, if it matches with mine... There isn't anything we can do. And I know that _you_ know that.”

Dean turns away. 

“No one ever said this was fair,” Lucifer continues, “we're circumventing Laws as it is.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, pushing an arm to his face, and Michael shifts away to give him further privacy.

Lucifer hopes that he's wrong. 

“Michael, are you going to be okay?” Dean asks, changing the topic, but still hiding his face from them. “The other you is gonna be on the planet and all.”

Michael shudders. “It won't be pleasant,” he says. “If I had to fight I would be in trouble, but simply the pickup should be... fine. He's not in _you_ which also makes a difference.”

“Yay,” Dean says, lacking all emotion. 

_Yay_ , Lucifer agrees. 

Castiel returns with a vampire at his side. He looks worried, even as the vampire grins. “Did something happen?” he asks. 

“Nah,” Dean manages, and Lucifer thinks he convinces Castiel, but Lucifer chances a glance with Michael and knows that he's not fooled either. “Benny,” he says, forcing a laugh and going in for a hug. “Man, it's real good to see you.” 

Castiel's watching Lucifer. He's hardly capable of doing anything to Lucifer, bindings or otherwise, but Lucifer still is appreciating Michael there as an added defense. It isn't as though they're on a time table until someone is _in_ Purgatory... but Lucifer also knows Michael has been so distracted because he's been preparing himself—and Adam—for the jump. 

“Michael,” he says against his best wishes, “if you're ready, you should go get Sam.” 

Michael raises a brow at him and Lucifer swears if he says anything about leaving him with Castiel, he will snap, but Michael just nods. “We'll be back soon,” he says. 

“We'll be ready,” he answers. 

Michael leaves. 

“What does that mean?” Castiel demands. 

“Oh, he's going to be a wreck when he gets back,” Lucifer says flippantly. Dean glares at him from where he's hunched between Benny and Castiel. He makes a petulant face in return, because really, Dean knows how many times he's killed Castiel. 

“Doesn't that make you happy?” Castiel says coolly. 

The thing is... time travel is finicky. 

Ideally, you leave, you come back seconds later, no time in the present has passed. But it never goes like that for them. Lucifer thinks for Michael it's just because he _can't_. Adam will always throw off his calculations in some way—it's better to aim further away from the time he left, instead of risking lapping over his own timeline. Lucifer just... doesn't like it. It feels wrong. He doesn't need as much of a span as Michael does, but if time passes when he's in the past, then it should, too, in the present.

Yet right now, Lucifer just wants to leave, even though he has no idea when Michael will be back, and he can't risk going into Purgatory at the wrong time. 

But he could really do without the interrogation. 

“I need my brother alive,” he says, which is the truth. “Unless you want to take over as Viceroy of Heaven, but that's never gone well for you, hm?” 

Castiel starts for him and Dean grabs his arm. “ _Hey_ , Cas. It's not worth it.”

“ _Dean_ , you shouldn't have to put up with this _infernal_ presence—”

“I'm not— _urgh_ ,” Dean sighs. “It's not like that.”

Interesting. 

“Things are tense, alright?” Dean continues, as though Lucifer hasn't just shriveled what's left of his heart when he brought up Jack.

Lucifer looks away. He could make this easier. 

“Adam's soul is blended with Michael's grace,” he explains. “It makes the jump difficult for them both, however I cannot do three,” his voice trips over the word, “consecutive jumps, so Michael must do one.”

“They're— _blended_?”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Benny chips in, grinning. 

Lucifer shrugs. “Three centuries is a long time in Hell.”

Benny whistles. “I'll take Purgatory then.” 

“But you left?” Dean says, hesitant. 

“Angel here said you might need some help,” he answers, jabbing a thumb towards Castiel. “So, how can I help?”

That breaks some of the tension in the room. 

“We're sort of spread thin right now. Cas, you'd make a good world-tour flier, and Benny... man, Adam's the only one I've really got that can get an outsider's opinion. He's human so people talk to him. I _don't_ really have a lot of knowledge from the monster side of things. I mean, I know what I get told, but _certain people_ like to keep things from me because they've got some dumb notion about protecting me.”

Lucifer wonders if he's ever tried telling the dragons _that_ to their faces. 

Unlikely. He seems to only tell Lucifer off about it, and even that has lessened to a degree. 

“So you need a judge about public opinion,” Benny says with a nod. “Question: what _is_ the general public opinion?”

Dean winces.

“Everyone either wants him dead or hates him,” Lucifer answers for him. It earns him a glare from Castiel, but Dean eases just slightly. “Save for most members of _this_ Circle—group of monsters that banned together to protect humanity.”

“Wait,” Benny starts, “say what?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “you get used to it eventually. The Circles are all over the globe. They're good people. You might have better luck with them, Benny, over anyone else.” 

“Well, sooner I get moving, the better,” Benny says. “I'm going to lose my mind, you know that.”

Dean nods. He hands Benny a phone. “This would've been Cas's, but better you have it. My number's programmed in here, as well as the leaders of Kansas City's Circle. Stay in touch, okay? Seriously, you need anything, you give me a shout. I ain't losing contact with you again this time, Benny.”

“Sure thing,” Benny agrees. He gives Dean a second hug, then nods to Castiel. “Angel, you look after him, capiche?”

“Uh, yes? Of course.” 

Benny grins, Dean smiles, and for a whole handful of minutes Lucifer thinks they can relax.


	71. 71

**71**

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

After their first disastrous jump to the past, Michael had learned some things. He'd been able to use his grace as a shield around Adam's soul on the return jump. He thinks he's fine-tuned it enough that while it won't be _pleasant_ , Adam should stay _stable_. 

_“Stable, sure...”_ Adam groans, sealed against Michael's back in a way that the archangel may as well be giving him a piggyback. _“Didn't hurt so much this time,”_ he adds, _“but I think my soul's bleeding. Can souls bleed? Like, are they supposed to do that?”_

_“No, Adam,”_ Michael answers, _“they're not.”_

_“Oh, okay. 's'cool.”_

No, Adam, it's not cool. One trip. Michael just had to do the one trip and Lucifer would deal with anything else that came up. He's still standing. He's still able to walk in a straight line, even if the bunker's warding itches and claws at their skin when Michael passes through it, and Adam further groans. 

But they make it through.

(Lucifer could have _mentioned_ the warding.)

His wings are heavier than before, moving sluggishly into the bunker; the weight of the other Michael roaming around _his_ planet a reminder that they didn't miss. 

_“Do you think he'll notice we're here?”_ Adam asks with a muffle.

_“Let's hope we're not here long enough to find out.”_

He finds the remaining trio right at the table beneath the balcony, immediately catching the soured looks on Sam and Dean's faces. 

He's exhausted and his host is clinging to him in a delirious attempt to stay awake. 

Michael could honestly care less about the two of them.

Jack, though... 

Good kid, Dean had called Jack. It should have been that any child of the devil would be a monster to match, but there is a kindness to his eyes that Michael hasn't seen in his brother since their creation, and that hurts, he realizes. 

“Hi,” Michael says, and the trip has made him disoriented enough as is, but he can't take his eyes off the kid. 

“Are you okay?” Jack asks him.

“No, but I'm better than I expected to be,” Michael answers. “I needed to come though; Lucifer needed a break.” And Michael... Michael had to get his eyes on the kid, and he wishes he could pull his gaze away, this immutable Nephilim that if Michael had seen him before Hell, he would have damned as an unholy being that needed to be vanquished. 

And now he's mourning before he even gets to know him. 

Adam shifts against Michael and envelopes his soul around him and Michael soaks up his soul's warmth, knowing Adam is barely hanging onto consciousness, but he's trying to be there for Michael.

The intricacies of reality cloying around Jack are impossible to miss. It was unusually optimistic of Lucifer that _this_ could have been interpreted as anything other than the universe telling them a firm _no, not this one._

_'No one ever said this was fair.'_

Lucifer had been right.

“My name is Michael,” he says, after no time at all has passed. Sam and Dean haven't stopped glaring at him, but that's to be expected. He imagines leaving Lucifer with Castiel wasn't going well either. “I'm... your uncle.”

“Like hell,” Dean snaps, “you don't get to show up toting _family_.”

That stings. 

He's tired, but he feels his hackles rising. “You have no claims for family yourself,” Michael spits. 

_“Michael,”_ Adam pleads. 

“We know Adam,” Sam starts, and Michael's might is a crashing tide as he narrows his gaze onto him.

“You _know nothing_ ,” he snarls and—

Adam swipes control from him, coughing and staggering to his knees as he does so, arms coming around his stomach. He has regrets, this was a bad idea, but they're supposed to be saving Sam, not killing him. “Sorry, sorry,” he chokes out. 

“The fuck?” Dean demands. 

Michael is enraged in the back of their mind but it's quickly at war with the pure concern at Adam's sudden struggles. _“Adam, I...”_

_“At least there's no hellhound this time,”_ Adam says. He holds up a hand, apologizing aloud again, but he stays where he is on the floor. “He gets a little—ah, testy, about the subject.”

“... Adam?” Sam whispers. 

“Yeah,” Adam croaks. “Guys, time travel sucks, I would not recommend it.”

“You're still...” Dean trails off, open shock on his face, and they remember that Future Dean _knew_ about Adam because, well, he saw them both die.

“Me, here, yeah. Could you try and, you know, not piss Michael off? Like, I get it's hard and all for you guys, but I don't _want_ to be in control right now, this _really_ hurts, and while you guys are unlikely to do jackshit for me, this _is_ for your own safety.” 

He doesn't wait to hear their response, sinking back and handing control off to Michael, because screw them. Adam's come to like Dean in the future. But here? Now? No. Just no. 

Michael is able to straighten again, his glare enough that it could burn holes through the Winchesters.

He's... stopped staring at Jack. 

“I do not wish,” Michael growls, “to hear your platitudes. I do not have _time_ for this! If my counterpart finds us this is all for nothing! I am here for one reason only,” he stares angrily at Sam, “and that is to throw you into Purgatory, Sam Winchester. Castiel is safely in the future, along with...” He glances at Dean. “A vampire named Benny.”

“What? H-He got Benny out?” Dean asks, barely a whisper. 

“Yes.” He looks to Jack again. What's he even supposed to say? 

_“Leave it to Lucifer,”_ Adam says. _“We'll talk with him and Dean about where to go from here. They'll still need their memories wiped, and... what's necessary to keep the timeline from collapsing.”_

Lucifer can handle one more trip. It was the plan, after all.

He wants to tell Jack he wishes he had more time with him, but anything he says is too revealing. 

“I wouldn't have recognized you as Lucifer's son,” he says instead. He thinks about Lucifer, now, and just... wonders. “I'm glad to have met you after I've spent time with a human. Your... humanity wouldn't have mattered to me before.” 

Jack smiles, a quick flash, seemingly unaware about the way the universe mocks him—mocks Michael. 

He drags forth the too-familiar rift. “After you, Sam.”

“I...” 

“Get your hesitation out of the way now, because the moment you're through, our countdown begins. You wouldn't want to accidentally find yourself in there for a decade instead of a few hours.”

Sam reaches out and hugs his brother and Jack. “I'll see you soon, alright?”

Michael glances away. When Sam goes through the rift, Michael says to Dean, “You should start making some preparations,” and then he sorts out grace-soul as best he can to prepare them for the jump and flies, never bringing himself to look at either of the people he leaves behind. 

It...

Doesn't go as well as the way to the past had. And Michael thought he almost had it down. 

“Adam?!” Dean shouts as Lucifer takes a hold of him before he topples forward. 

“No,” Michael groans. 

“ _What_?” Dean demands, following behind Lucifer as he moves Michael to the couch. “What happened to acting as a buffer?”

“Slippery process,” Michael slurs.

“Shit.”

Mm, Michael agrees. Adam's not out completely, he thinks, but he's hardly coherent—not that Michael is much better. He assumes that they must have split the damage fifty-fifty this time, instead of one taking the entire brunt of it. 

He eases into the cushions. He never cared for couches before. This is nice, he thinks. 

“ _Michael_ ,” Lucifer snaps at him, and he tries to heed Lucifer, but there's a lot of sound in the room, too much bustle of movement to follow. He closes his eyes again, and he thinks he hears Lucifer curse, even as he feels the first cool touch of healing, numb and spreading along his spine. 

“Timer started,” Dean's saying, closer than Michael expected him to be and he blinks his eyes open and flinches just a bit, but then he remembers Adam saying something about Lucifer and Dean healing them after their previous travels and he eases, his grace swimming away from him. “ _Shit_.”

“Now is not a good time for your concentration to stray,” Lucifer berates him. 

“Shut up!”

“Dean, what are you—” 

That was Castiel. Michael's gaze slides around the room. Lucifer's taken to kneeling on the floor by the couch, Dean seated on the coffee table and gathering his thoughts, Castiel hovering nearby, but clearly afraid to get close. 

“No, time, Cas!” Dean shouts, and Michael can feel the second hand on his back, warm to Lucifer's cold. 

“But, Dean—”

“Focus,” Lucifer whispers, then turns his head to Castiel, “do not question it right now, but he _can_ heal. Distracting him is detrimental to his life and my brother's.”

And Lucifer and Castiel's as well, Michael doesn't say. 

Dean had said that he could feel the pain like it was his own. Michael isn't even sure what it feels like _himself_ , a morbid curiosity in his sluggish mind wanting to know. What does time travel, really, do to the body, soul, mind? And how does it translate for Dean, when it isn't just Michael he's healing, but the conglomeration that is the two of them?

“And you're,” Castiel asks, alarmed, “doing what?”

“Guiding the flow,” Lucifer explains, “so it doesn't get out of control.”

“I... see.”

Michael thinks Castiel would have asked further if Lucifer hadn't already shut him down, which is good, that's a subject no one wants to discuss when they don't know—know what Michael knows. He'll have to tell them, somehow. 

Too soon, the timer goes off, the chirping beep like a heartbeat. 

Michael thought five minutes would have felt longer. 

_“Adam?”_

Adam shifts against him but he's not well enough to leave without further healing. If they both lose consciousness... Michael isn't sure they'll be able to come out of it. 

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Dean bites out, startling Michael, “I'll look after them, but _you_ , you have to _go_.” 

There's anger in Lucifer's eyes as he stares at Dean, but Dean doesn't react, only turns to Castiel. Michael laughs, a strange burble that doesn't sound right from him, but he can't help it. He thinks Adam would scold him if he had the energy. Now's not a good time, something like that. Michael wishes Adam were more awake. 

“Cas,” Dean says, looking to the angel, “I need you to be my guide in Lucifer's place. Can you do that?”

“I... Dean...”

“ _Cas_.”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, quick.

Michael's a little less reassured, but he's in no position to protest. 

Dean looks back to Lucifer, who straightens away from them, snap echoing through Michael's mind as the rift opens. 

“My brother better not be dead when I return, Dean.” 

How sweet, Lucifer. 

He'd prefer not to be dead, too, and Dean's grin doesn't settle his thoughts. He knows Dean _can_ heal, of course, but having his and Adam's lives held between him and _Castiel_ , when he's only ever had an archangel guide the flow... he's not sure if it will be too much for Castiel. 

“Trust me,” Dean asks, and... oh. 

Oh. 

Michael has to fight to keep his eyes open to see Lucifer incline his head in acknowledgment and leave through the rift, and then see Dean's slump of relief after. 

_“Adam,”_ he pushes, but there's barely a flutter of response from his soul. Michael will show him the memory if they make it out of this alive. 

He puts all his energy reserves into saying, voice weak, “Focus on the song, Dean,” in a reminder. 

Dean nods. “I-I will.”

Michael lets his consciousness, finally, give away.


	72. 72

**72**

Sunday, March 7, 2320

Sam had been able to hide for the better part of an hour. Maybe two? He can hear, distantly, the beasts clamoring around, closing in on his scent. He's been able to escape thus far every time they almost pin him down, slipping away moments before and moving through the woods, keeping low. They hadn't seemed particularly smart and their hunt for him was idle at best. 

Only when he makes it a fair distance away, seeing no sign of any of them, he finds one sitting on a boulder like its been _waiting_ for him, keen eyes on Sam, and then the sentry _howls_ and the forest behind Sam _moves_. 

So.

A lot smarter than Sam gave them credit for. 

Sam whirls his blade in hand and fixes his stance, readying himself best he can as the pack of hulking wolves descend towards him.

“ _Yeah_!” Sam yells. “ _Let's go_!”

“Don't be such a drama queen, Sam.” 

Sam jolts as Lucifer is suddenly there, arm raised to snap, and the pack of wolves are disintegrated in an instant. 

Lucifer sighs, wistful. “It's been _so_ long since I was able to do that. Perks of Purgatory, I suppose. Hello Sam.”

“Lucifer. Where's Michael?”

“We have had to trade off roles in order to give us time to recover, and it seemed more cruel to send Castiel back here in order to retrieve you.” He reaches out to put a hand to Sam's shoulder, digging fingers in before Sam can pull away, and flies them back to his already-open rift. 

Sam backs up, eyes full of distrust. “Is it really—” 

Lucifer looks bored. “My brother is unwell and I don't have the energy to toy with you.” At Sam's confused reaction, Lucifer charges forward and heaves Sam through the rift. 

Sam staggers, hitting solid floor, the rift sealing shut behind him and Lucifer walking past, towards the couch where Michael lay. He watches some exchange between Dean and Lucifer before Lucifer cocks his head to where Sam fell.

“ _Sammy_ ,” he hears his brother, seeing him stand away from Michael as Lucifer crosses the room as though to switch off. 

“... Dean?”

Dean throws his arms around him. “You're okay? You're not hurt?”

“No. I'm just tired. It's a lot of running.”

“Don't I know it,” Dean laughs, pulling back to look Sam in the eyes. “Welcome to the future, Sam. It's only kind of a shitshow.” 

He helps Sam to his feet. Sam frowns at his surroundings, and then at Lucifer sitting on the coffee table, healing hands running down Michael's side, and Castiel crouched on the floor doing the same. 

“What... what happened to him?”

“I think the cosmos was starting to throw a fit the more times they went back. Lucifer's jump tomorrow should be the final one. It'll probably be bad, but he doesn't have another soul riding along with him, so...” 

Sam doesn't particularly care, but something in Dean's voice sounds genuine and that is more disorienting than anything around them.

“Hey, so... I've got food and beer if you want. Shower, man.” Dean faces Sam, looking him up and down. Sam shifts. “Seriously, _really_ , you need to take a shower. Please. Do us all a favor, Sammy.”

“Rude,” Sam answers. 

“I don't need Purgatory all over my living room.” 

“Fine, alright, jeez. Do you have a change of clothes?”

“Er, yeah, let me see what I can do for you.” He claps a hand to Sam's shoulder and holds it there. “It's good to see you, Sam.”


	73. 73

**73**

Monday, March 8, 2320

“Dean.” Lucifer hears the scramble and the click of a gun. “While it would hardly dent me, I'd prefer not to be shot.”

“The fuck?” Dean groans, slapping a hand at his bedside lamp and staring at Lucifer, lowering his aim. 

“Michael is conscious. He says we need to talk,” Lucifer says. 

Dean tenses. Lucifer looks away. 

“Your brother is sleeping. Castiel is... out.”

Dean's eyes stray to his clock. Lucifer follows his gaze. 1:18AM. “Is... Is Michael mobile?”

“Not yet. I was going to take you to him. Avoid waking your brother.”

Dean scrubs at his face but nods. He presses the safety of his gun secured again and shoves it under his pillow. “Should put a bell on you,” he scowls, throwing back the covers. 

“It seemed like a bad idea to make _more_ noise with my arrival, lest you wake Sam in reaction.”

Dean looks like he thinks that over. “You know,” he mutters, “you're probably right.” He steps over to Lucifer, still unhappy about being woken, and Lucifer touches his shoulder and flies them only across the penthouse and to Adam's room. 

Michael is sitting up, legs crossed on the bed. 

“How's Adam?” Dean asks. 

“Sleeping, but we're much better, thank you. I wasn't certain Castiel would make a reliable guide for you.”

“It was... weird. Unsteady. Good in a pinch, but not a preferred method.”

“Michael,” Lucifer says, “why are we here?”

Dean sneers, dragging the desk chair out and taking a seat. “Why do you _think_? I don't imagine Michael would've had me woken up if Jack was just fine!”

“Careful,” Michael warns.

Dean scowls. 

“But...” Michael says, “you are correct. It was... overwhelmingly obvious. I think Jack might even be able to notice, he's just ignoring it.”

Dean sinks his head into his hands. “What the hell are we supposed to do?” 

“Jack and the Dean of that time still need their memories wiped,” Michael says, looking to Lucifer. “I wanted to talk to you both before I did anything.”

“Thanks,” Dean says bitterly, but there is a quiet underlying gratitude. “First time I see Sam and Cas in centuries and they're going to kill me.” 

“They can try,” Lucifer says darkly. 

“ _Not helping_ ,” Dean snaps, glancing up at him. 

“It would be best if _you_ were the one to tell them, unfortunately,” Lucifer says to him. “I'll... talk to Jack while you do so.”

“What?” Dean growls. “You'll actually tell him the truth before you whammy him? What's the point? He's not gonna remember anyway.”

Lucifer doesn't really have an answer. “I owe him one, I suppose,” he says quietly.

Dean stands, the chair rolling away from the force of it, but there's not a lot of room for him to pace. “You owe him, right,” Dean spits. He wants to _yell_. Wants to throw down. Lucifer can see it, can already feel _Jack's_ power a quivering vitality under Dean's skin and Lucifer doesn't think he has enough control to lock it in.

“If you wish to lash out at me, I can relocate us.”

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Michael admonishes, but Lucifer's only watching Dean. 

Dean's shoulders slump, the power dispersing with the motion, and he looks away. “No,” he mumbles. “Now what?”

“Lucifer wipes their memories, they play out the same situation as close to the first time as possible.”

“We're sending them to their execution,” Dean says, but there's no argument in his tone, just frank acceptance. 

“Do I need to leave them with any... influence?” Lucifer asks. 

“Doubt it... Ketch and Garth will be enough. They wouldn't have been diverted from their parts. As long as I go for the spear and Jack goes for the—er, egg,” he looks to Lucifer. (Eugh. Lucifer remembers that egg.) “It should work out. In theory. Maybe just... I don't know. They're going to be confused that Sam and Cas aren't there.”

Lucifer nods. “I'll improvise. Get some sleep, both of you. I'll leave in the morning.”

“I was sleeping perfectly fine for once, thank you!” Dean quietly snaps, even as Lucifer nudges his shoulder and shoves him right back to his room. 

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer looks away from his brother. 

“It has to work out,” Lucifer says. 

Michael makes a frustrated sound Lucifer can't interpret, and doesn't care to ask. He leaves Hitomi for Hell, feeling a lack of safety with Sam in the building and Castiel an unknown. He imagines the angel is getting an understanding of the world, much as Lucifer had first done. Why fake resting when you don't need it? 

In the morning Lucifer checks in, briefly, and then he traces the familiar route to the past. 

“Hey, Jack,” Lucifer says, sitting atop the table he's chosen for a perch. He's bleeding all down his front. He didn't bother to clean himself up this time. He's still shaking. He's hoping he doesn't have to do this again. Even for getting a powerboost each time he arrives, it's too much. 

Jack looks up at him from his chair, and smiles. Quiet, hesitant, but enough. “Are they safe?”

“They are,” Lucifer answers. “You can,” he waves a hand at his head, “grill me. I think you should.”

Jack looks away. “Not sure Dean would think it's a good idea.”

“Dean's not here right now,” Lucifer says. There's not a lot of time left, as Lucifer understands. The universe is pressing in around him, a warning. Get out or you'll no longer be able to. “Please,” Lucifer asks after a moment.

Jack bites his lip but nods and holds up his hand, asking, “Are they _safe_?”

Of the two of them, it hurts Lucifer more than Jack, but he still rasps, “ _Yes_ ,” before coughing up more blood.

Jack starts. “I—sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, kid. You should get a hit in on your old man.”

“I don't _want_ to hurt anyone,” Jack argues.

Lucifer chuckles, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth, “Winchesters and Castiel raised you well.”

Jack frowns. “You don't look so good.”

“Lot of time travel, even if I tapped out with Michael. Least you got to meet a version of your uncle that wasn't a _complete_ dick.”

Jack's shoulders droop and he looks away. 

“What?” Lucifer asks.

“You can't take me, can you?”

“Ah,” Lucifer murmurs. He runs a finger along the blood on his sleeve. “No. I can't.”

Jack nods, almost like he had been expecting it. He remembers what Michael had said. 

“Like Dean, I think you're too ingrained. He's... He's going to believe it's his fault, but it isn't.” He looks up at his son, tilting his head and staring as though he's looking _through_ Jack. “Even I don't understand it yet, and I find that... worrying.”

“Why would Dean think...?”

Lucifer closes his eyes and extends his presence, and he knows the Hunter is still out of range. 

Hn.

He opens his eyes. 

“As I've been told, you live something like a hundred years. Long enough for your grace to regenerate. Michael then kills you, and takes it from you. When Michael's expelled, it remains with Dean. But that... shouldn't be enough.”

“Unless there's more of a reason,” Jack says.

“Exactly. I just don't know what it is. And I don't like not knowing.”

“Sam and Cas, do they...”

“Dean is, supposedly, telling them while I'm gone. I imagine it isn't going well.”

Jack grins, though it's forced. “No. Probably not. Can I... write them a letter?”

Lucifer glances at the clock. “You have until Dean gets back. I am going to have to erase both your memories. Michael will likely figure _something_ out when Sam and Castiel don't show up to the party, but I won't risk him being handed the answers.”

“Okay.” Jack takes a few moments, and then he nods to himself, gets up, and goes to grab several sheets of paper and a pen from a nearby desk. He puts them on the table, and then disappears from the room. Lucifer looks at him in wonderment when he comes back with a damp towel and hands it to him. “For the blood.”

Lucifer takes it and begins dabbing it over himself as Jack settles in to write, occasionally scratching through lines and words, mumbling to himself. Lucifer lets him work. He keeps wondering, as he has since the three of them spoke in Adam's room, if there was a way to save his son, but even Michael had come back from the past with the same concrete opinion as Lucifer. 

Lucifer just _wishes_... He closes his eyes, listening to the scrawls of the pen, slowing his breathing, and silently prays. He's made mistakes with Jack. He's chosen power over love. He doesn't... he _wouldn't_ make the same mistake now. He should already _have_ Jack's power. But it isn't with him; it's with Dean.

So he puts his will into the universe and just prays— _somehow, please_. 

“Oh, great, you're here,” Dean's voice cuts in, startling Lucifer.

Jack looks up and smiles. 

Dean drops his duffle bag onto the table. “So what's this then?” He gestures at the two of them. 

“I'm going the rest of the way with you,” Jack says. 

“ _What_?” Dean growls. “That wasn't the plan!”

“That was always the plan,” Jack says. “We just didn't tell you.”

Which is a complete _lie_ , Lucifer thinks, and he doesn't know if he should be _proud_ or very, very confused. 

“Are you _kidding_ —”

“There has to be two of you for this to work,” Lucifer interrupts. 

“Why the hell should it be Jack?”

“I volunteered.”

“ _Jack_.” 

“I have to do this, Dean,” Jack says. “And you have to let me.” 

Dean's angry, and tired, and Lucifer can't help but be concerned that isn't ever going to change. It isn't so much that he _lets_ Jack as he just, maybe, gives up a little. Lucifer erases Dean's memory first, holding him in a sense of stasis as he stares at Jack, not being able to understand him, “Why did you...? He was going to lose his memory regardless.”

Jack smiles, and hands Lucifer his folded up letters. “I guess I just wanted to.”

Lucifer takes them. “It's not worth much,” Lucifer says, “but I... am sorry.”

“It's worth something,” Jack answers. 

Something is more than Lucifer deserves, but he nods, raises his other hand, and takes the memories from Jack, too. He leaves the smallest amount of _pressure_ to them both. An influence, insistent. He holds them both in stasis before he breathes in, gathering himself, and flies for what he hopes is the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm.


	74. 74

**74**

Monday, March 8, 2320

“It's... I really didn't think this would work! Now Lucifer can just get Jack and—”

“That's not the plan, Sammy.”

Sam frowns at him. “What?”

“Lucifer didn't go to pick up Jack. He went to have this same conversation.”

“Dean, what are you...” Castiel trails off.

“Lucifer and Michael, they both got a hard look at Jack. Thing is, Jack lives for a long time. Too long.” He forces himself to meet Sam's eyes, wanting to be _anywhere_ but here. “It's too much, Sam.”

“No... No, no, no,” Sam's saying, holding up a hand. “You're not—you can't mean—”

“Dean,” Cas says, and there's a plea there. 

“We can't pull Jack here.”

And Dean wishes he had Michael or Adam with him when those words trigger the tipping point, but they were still resting, getting in as much as they could before Lucifer made his return trip.

“Dean, what the _hell_!” Sam yells. 

Castiel's expression is stone. 

Dean matches it as equally as he can. “If you think I'm happy about this...”

“We didn't even get to say goodbye!” 

“They weren't certain until Michael went! And you wouldn't have come if you knew, anyway!” Dean shouts. “There wasn't enough time, Sammy. Not to get everyone in place—this couldn't get fucked up!”

Sam withdraws, keeping his back to Dean. 

It's fine. Dean's fine. 

“Dean,” Castiel says roughly. 

“It had to be this way, Cas,” Dean says. “I'm sorry, and I know you must not believe me, but it had to.”

“What happened to 'we don't leave family behind?'”

“Screw you, Cas.”

They're interrupted by the thrash of wings accompanying Lucifer's arrival, and the moment his feet touch solid ground, he collapses, hitting his knees hard, hands slapping to the floor as he gags on blood. 

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Dean yells, then turns his head, “Michael! He's back, get in here!” 

Michael is fumbling at Dean's side in an instant as he appears. Dean puts a hand to Lucifer's shoulder to push him up.

“You're _fine_ ,” Michael forces out, drawing fingertips along Lucifer's brow, healing energies a whisper to skin. “It's nothing.”

“ _Thanks_ , Michael,” Lucifer rasps. 

Dean shrinks away, hand to his own head. “The—the hell,” he murmurs. 

“Dean?” Sam asks, his anger fading into worry. 

“It changed,” Dean says, eyes clenched shut as his mind tries to handle a clash of memories. 

“What did?” Lucifer asks, still coughing up blood.

“Shut _up_ ,” Dean tells him, “don't talk if you're dying.”

“Didn't you hear my charming brother? I'm fine.”

Michael makes a discontented sound.

Dean mirrors it, but answers Lucifer, anyway, “When Michael fully took control, I guess. Why do I remember both?”

“Jack's power, likely,” Michael says, smacking Lucifer's hand down as he tries to wave his brother off from healing him further. 

“ _Wait_ ,” Sam says quickly, “you have Jack's power? Is that why—”

Lucifer's head snaps up. “ _Don't_ ,” he says in a commanding tone. He pushes Michael away from him and climbs back to his feet. “We don't know why Jack wasn't able to come.” He holds up the papers in his hand. “Jack wrote letters.” Lucifer looks at the folded cluster, fanning them out and then shifting his gaze to Dean. “He wrote you one, too.”

Dean looks stunned, but takes the letter when Lucifer hands it to him.

Lucifer holds up the other two. “You get these if you stop being a pain in our asses. Or at least theirs,” he nods to his brother and Dean. “Me, I don't care.”

“Screw you, I don't need your protection,” Dean says distractedly, walking towards the kitchen as he starts to read his letter.

“Tell that to your Leviathan Fan Squad,” Lucifer informs his retreating back.

Dean gives him the finger. 

“Well?” Lucifer asks, redirecting his words to the angry pair. “He worked an awful lot on these.”


	75. 75

**75**

_To Dean:_

_I love you. I have thought, and always will, that you are brave, and strong. Those things I think must be ten times greater if you woke up, alone, to a terrible future._

_Lucifer says you might blame yourself for my having to stay here. Please, don't. I've already lived longer than I thought I would. You helped me enjoy life, even if it was for the short while. What comes next for me I know will be a lot, and even without my memories I will strive to be_ brave _and_ strong _like you. I'll do what I can to try and make you feel less alone while Michael lords over us both._

_And it warms my heart that my power will go to_ you _, not Michael. Take care of it, and them, and even my uncle, and I think... I think my father, too. The brief amount that I was with him for once felt like he wasn't lying to me, that he wasn't trying to use or manipulate me. So maybe... I don't know._

_Reshape the world, Dean. I know you can. I'm proud that you're trying; I don't know if I could do the same._

-

_To Sam:_

 _I love you. I know you're going to be angry with everyone after you find out what happens, but understand that even_ I _could tell that I couldn't go. It didn't sit right in me. Something was telling me I had to stay, and I accept that. I know it won't be as easy for you. I know you and Castiel aren't used to leaving people behind; but, I need to do this. I need to be here for Dean, as the only one that can._

_You've given me that strength to be there for my family. I'll never let it go. I'll never let Michael break me._

_Please forgive Dean. He does everything out of love, you know that. So please. Make due with what you can of that world, and don't live in anger._

_Can you tell him this time for me... that it's okay?_

-

_To Cas:_

_I love you. You know, I think, as well as I do, that I have to stay. I want to, and I didn't fight it. Maybe I should have. Fighting Fate is what a Winchester does, right? But I couldn't, not this time. You've watched over Dean since you saved him from Hell; now it's my turn. Michael wants to live and I won't let him. I've seen what he could be like, I've met the one who really is my uncle, even if I know I won't remember. But it's okay. I won't remember Lucifer being kind to me, but that's also okay. My heart has those memories, even if my mind doesn't._

_You, Sam, and Dean, took care of me. You are my family, you always will be. I know you're afraid to let yourself be happy. But, maybe, the Empty doesn't have the power there that it does here. So, maybe, you can try? To be happy. I hope you can. More than anything, I hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. End Part III. 
> 
> I don't know why I keep acting like I'm actually going to have a posting schedule so I'll see you when I see you.


	76. PART IV: 76

###  **PART IV**

> And all the kids cried out  
>  “Please stop, you're scaring me”  
>  I can't help this awful energy  
>  Goddamn right, you should be scared of me  
>  Who is in control?  
>  [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so8V5dAli-Q&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=37) Control by Halsey

**76**

Monday, March 8, 2320

“Dude, what did you say to the kid?”

As happy as Dean is that he has both Sam and Cas here, alive, in the future, they're pissing him off; not that he could blame them. Still, he skipped off to the Circle meeting and he's not at all surprised that Lucifer came with him. Michael and Adam are, shockingly, trying to keep the peace. Good on them. They're definitely the less hated of everyone at the moment. 

Dean takes the last sip of his whiskey, slamming the glass down on the table that they've claimed while they wait for the usual crowd to trickle in. Dean's Dynamic Dragon Duo are, of course, already in attendance, and a few other prominent figures that Dean finds himself not hating and thinks he might trust if he really lets himself stop thinking about it. 

“What?” Lucifer asks. He's got an arm thrown over the back of his chair, sitting sideways.

“Jack,” Dean clarifies. 

“I _assumed_ that much.”

“He... ugh. He acknowledged you as his father.”

Lucifer turns his gaze from their surroundings to stare at Dean incredulously.

Dean gestures wildly with both hands. “I know!”

“Interesting,” Lucifer murmurs, forcing his surprise to fade and going back to watching the entrance. “Did he say anything else of note?” 

“Oh, yeah, that I shouldn't blame myself because you definitely thought I was going to.”

“You _are_ ,” Lucifer says. “I bet you _still_ do.”

Dean grumbles. “Whatever. It is, isn't it? My fault?”

“You having Jack's power isn't enough of a reason for him not being able to come here; the worst that would have happened is that you _lost_ it as a result. You don't have all your memories from when Michael was possessing you. Something may have happened that we are unaware about.”

Dean slides the empty glass side to side, staring at it. “I guess,” he says. He glances up as Priya enters and frowns. “Oh, that's not good,” Dean says, slipping out of his chair and walking over to her. “Heeeey, Priya. What's wrong?” 

“What, I can't just decide to take up politics?” she asks. 

“Priya.”

“I caught sight of a cluster of Leviathans on my patrol. Petticoat Lane. Five or six of them. I don't think there's been that many in one location before.”

Dean swears, glancing to his side as Lucifer steps up next to him. “I don't know, maybe they sensed that we did an upheaval of the cosmos. Or maybe they started to get organized in their quest to _murder me_. Let Ligthart know. Lucifer and I will... figure something out.”

“Oh, we will?”

“ _Lucifer_.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes and takes Dean by the shoulder and wings them back to the living room of the penthouse, making Sam and Cas scramble, but not Adam. 

Adam blinks up at them. “You're back too early.” He twitches. “Michael's worried; what happened?”

“Leviathans,” Dean spits out. “A lot of them. Knew I should've gotten a stupid knife made. Now I gotta dig up some dumb righteous bone.”

“If you want to go grave-robbing while Michael and I take on your fan club, be my guest.”

“Ugggh, how is that the one weapon that _isn't_ in the asshole's collection.”

“Because he was an archangel and had an army of monsters at his beck and call?” 

Dean glares at him. “You do realize I'm using _your_ blood for two-thirds of the spell.”

Lucifer shrugs, hardly bothered even though Dean's pretty sure he wouldn't know what spell Dean was referring to, and then tosses his attention to Adam. 

Adam sighs and after a moment it's Michael that stands. “Stay here,” he says to the others.

Dean folds his arms and takes the open seat. “How 'bout I just take one of _my_ bones out.”

“Please don't,” Lucifer says. “Petticoat Lane? I suppose they're at our front door now.”

“Happy Hunting,” Dean mumbles as the two vanish. “Stupid archangels.”

“Uh,” is all Sam says.

“Well, you gotta catch up with Adam.”

“Yeah... first time we saw him it didn't go so hot.”

“Yeah, well, don't piss Adam off or Michael will bitchslap you.”

“... Do you know that from experience?” Cas asks.

“Maybe. I had a bad day.”

“Don't piss off Michael in general,” Sam adds. 

Dean snorts. “Fair enough.”

“Dean... why are you... _here_? Not the bunker?”

Dean shrugs. “Here's a lot of bad memories. There's a lot of good memories that are too painful. I got a lot of supplies from the bunker. Books and shit, too. But a lot of it was missing. Quite a few break-ins after enough years I'd imagine. Hopefully a lot of Hunters. Most of the weapons were gone. Definitely no Leviathan-killing knives. Dammit, should've had you guys swipe one from the past.”

“Lucifer's ruling Hell?” Cas asks.

Dean did say he'd use Lucifer's blood for two of the three he needs, and Lucifer's no Alpha. “Of course he's ruling Hell. Like, what do you take him for?” As though Dean hadn't been irked himself over it. “Michael's... trying with Heaven, but that's a harder problem. There's _literally_ three angels in the world now. You, and the two dipshit archangels.”

“I haven't noticed a demonic presence,” Cas says.

“Nah. Far as I know the demons are still trying to unknot Hell. And they hate it on the surface.” He stares up at the ceiling. He hates how hard this is. “Look, I'm sorry about Jack. I wanted him here. If I could uproot all of humanity and transplant them here, I would. But I can't. This is what we got. We can't change the past; we just have to move forward. Without Apocalypse Michael, this world isn't so bad. I'd like to keep it that way. I'd like to think that it's not all gonna come crashing down when I'm not looking, but that's just it: I _am_ looking.” Sometimes, anyway.

“Adam said that that the monsters don't need to feed,” Sam says. 

“Yeah. The _one_ benefit of the grace-blood cocktail. There was some talk at one point about maybe trying to siphon it out of people for safety-sake, but... until monsters start potentially procreating, having that in them is the best way for them to coexist with humans.” 

“Coexist,” Sam echoes. “Right.”

“Hey, seriously. I... I think I might even be able to call a few of them friends. Even if that changes, they were there for me when I needed them. I wouldn't have been able to get over a lot of things without their help. So they could turn on the world, but it won't change what they did for me.”

“It's... just a lot to take in, Dean.”

“I know. I don't expect you to adapt. It took me months to find some vague sense of my new normal. It's _still_ taking me time for everything else. Michael—he left a lot of marks on me. On the planet.”

Sam nods, looking down at his laced-together hands. 

“Where do we go from here?” Cas asks, even though he's already gotten the rundown, Sam hasn't.

Dean explains again the plan of balance and trying to re-empower God. That they know they _have_ made some progress because both Lucifer and Michael have more range to their abilities; they wouldn't have been able to time travel for one thing. 

“Sammy, you'd do _way_ better at the Circles' meetings than I would.” He doesn't say that Lucifer would agree with him. Might spook Sam. “Garth and his family are still alive—they're usually up to the North with his pack. Benny's going to travel some. He's getting a feel for things from a monster's point of view outside of here.”

“He's only been here for, what, a day? He's already gone?”

“Benny doesn't do 'sitting still' very well, and I think city life ain't really for him,” Dean explains. “Cas, it'd help if you played the Messenger of God role. Michael and Lucifer both hate it. Lucifer just uses the prophet, Ruth, moving her city to city.”

“And it's just... fine?” Sam asks. “Going out into the city?”

“Sammy, you're ten times safer than I ever will be. The Leviathans that still exist here haven't made much an attack on humanity itself; they just flock to this city and try to murder me. They might gun for you two, but honestly without a leader I think they're very much one-track mind. And you have the benefit of _not_ having this face.” He points at himself. “Which means every single normal person won't be terrified of you.”

Sam's surprised. “Everyone...”

“Thinks I'm Michael,” Dean finishes. “Doesn't matter how much any of us say otherwise. I'm Michael, this is just a test, eventually I'm going to calculate a points total and start smiting people, but you're not gonna know _when_.”

“So wait... is it humans or... _monsters_ worshiping God?” Sam asks.

“Both. More monsters than humans, we think.”

“Why would they?” Cas adds.

“Planet's sick. They can all tell. _I_ can tell. Feel it in their bones. They want it to stop. This is the only solution they've got. Dragons thought maybe they could... make some lesser gods. But I don't see that plan going far.” 

“Sorry... did you say dragons?”

“Yeah!” Dean exclaims, grinning. “There's like. Maybe fifty. Total. Planetwide. Two in this city though, they're the main ones I owe a lot to.”

“But... _dragons_ ,” Sam says again.

“They're also the reason we got the Purgatory Hack.”

“I did wonder how you came up with that one,” Cas acknowledges. “Lucifer said it was your idea.”

“Got a weird explanation one night about how time worked in Purgatory. Took awhile before it gave me an idea.” He shrugs. “Worked out though, didn't it?”

Michael and Lucifer reappear. 

Dean turns 'round to glance at them. “What took you guys so long? They rough you up?”

“Oh,” Michael says airily, “we just wanted to give you time to _talk_.”

“Rude. I still wanted to make the Circle meeting.”

“That's disappointing,” Lucifer says, “I thought grave-digging was on the table.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah. I suppose it should be. Fuck, I don't want to deal with finding a someone that fits the bill. I feel like anyone that died _recently_ might be in that category, but I don't know what happened to anyone. Did Michael still let people do funerals?”

“Officially?” Lucifer says. “Unlikely. I haven't seen any corpses around though, so he either let humans bury one another, or he used monsters as garbage disposals.”

Dean cringes.

“I'll go to Heaven and see if I can find a soul that fits and died nearby,” Michael says. “Then you can go about your... desecration.”

“I'll go with you,” Cas says.

“If you want the headache,” Michael warns.


	77. 77

**77**

Monday, March 8, 2320

Heaven _is_ a headache, the lights of the halls dim, though not flickering like Castiel remembers; one archangel constantly on tap must be enough, with the second willing to provide support, but at a distance.

Castiel is used to the _emptiness_ of Heaven—though not even to this _complete_ degree. 

But the tumble of souls permeate the area like clouds; disorganized, halls only separating souls by _location_ not the individual. Sure, all the original forty-six billion souls still have their personal Heavens in tact. Everything after Apocalypse Michael though? 

“How could this happen?” Castiel asks. 

“My 'other,'” Michael grouses. He looks over his shoulder. “If you think this is bad, you should see Hell.”

“You've been?”

“Once. After learning that Lucifer had been meddling down there. He has an... _outlandish_ open-doors policy.”

“Oh. You... let him?”

Michael smiles, and it catches Castiel off guard. “I've started to think it's better to not fight Lucifer on some things. And despite the reason he might have for working on Hell, the excuse he's given is still solid: you cannot fix up Heaven without also fixing Hell. There must be a balance.”

“It just seems... distressing.”

“Lucifer in Hell is the least of my worries.” 

Castiel follows Michael through the twists and turns of the halls as they enter a corridor lined with unmarked doors on either side. The silence is uncomfortable at best, and Castiel knows Michael isn't going to strike up a conversation with him. Castiel doesn't exactly want it _either_ , but they _need_ to.

“You can't ignore me forever,” Castiel says.

“I can certainly try—we're not _friends_ , Castiel.” 

“I never said we were. But I need information, and I'm not getting it from Lucifer.”

“Dean explained to you our plans, did he not?” Michael stops walking and turns to look behind, a strange grin on his face that ups Castiel's nerves. “Or do you not trust his judgment?” 

“I—it isn't like that,” Castiel stammers. 

“Of course it isn't. After all, you don't trust any of us. You'd better find someone you _do_ trust, brother, or this is going to get very difficult for you.” He continues to move, but Castiel pauses when they get to a four-way intersection. Castiel sees each corridor to the left and right of him marked _Kansas City, December 25, 2020_. There is no discernible end to either of the long halls. 

Castiel sways, his grace feeling insignificant to the sheer number of _souls_ in the never-ending expanse. He notices from where they stand that there aren't even full-sized doors, instead slim compartments, side by side, floor to ceiling. 

“These are...” he trails off.

Michael stares at him. “Most of Kansas City either died that night or were turned. I'm not even trying any of those. I don't know if there are any bodies to go with those souls. Earlier years may have marked graves.”

“Did you rearrange Heaven entirely?” 

“Sorting souls by name no longer seemed efficient,” Michael answers. “Location, year, name. Moving the previously established souls around was the easy part.” 

“I wouldn't have thought...”

Michael scoffs, and Castiel stiffens, and it's foolish, he thinks. Michael is hardly going to _punish_ him for his insolence, not after all the work the archangels put into bringing him and Sam to the here-and-now. But still, it feels like being _scolded_. Nothing more than a footsoldier to the Viceroy of Heaven.

“The realm answers to my will,” Michael says coolly. “Better it does, or I sincerely doubt I would find a soul for Dean.” He cuts down a corridor after two more intersections. Castiel sees _Kansas City, 2018_ , and feels horror at the same length of hall for a year as had been for a single day. This hall is back to the familiar doors, names and dates on each. 

It shouldn't put Castiel at ease as much as it does. 

“What is your... current opinion of Dean?”

Michael mutters something that Castiel strains to hear, but can't make out. He says, louder, “You're going to have to be more specific, Castiel.” He starts tapping his knuckles to each door as they pass, eyes watching his path. 

“Are you... are you going to harm him?”

“If I was going to harm him I would have done it already, don't you think?” 

“And Lucifer?” 

“You don't have to worry about Lucifer.”

“Please don't be offended by it, but I have a hard time believing you.”

Michael snorts. “I never would have guessed. But you asked for my opinion, and that is it. You never have to worry about Lucifer and your precious Dean.”

“ _Why_?” Castiel demands, and Michael stops and turns to face Castiel fully, and there's the soldier, the ruler of the Host, donning the mantle of Heaven with the glory left to the holy realm. 

Castiel _staggers_ under the sheer presence. 

“You wouldn't,” Michael whispers dangerously, “believe me if I told you.”

He raps his knuckles at the door besides him, and instantly his expression changes to recognition, interest in his eyes as he straightens and faces the door. He pushes his hand flat and tilts his head, humming softly. “Amanda Herring. 1976-2018. Resurrection Catholic Cemetery.” He grins at Castiel and the one-eighty in personality has Castiel struggling to keep up. 

He thinks this will be his new normal when facing Michael.


	78. 78

**78**

Tuesday, March 9, 2320

“Okay, look, I know this is a super awkward ask, but trust me when I say I don't want anything terrible from them, just a _little bit_ of their blood,” Dean is saying to Ligthart over the phone, pacing a figure-8 around his couches and coffee table. “And I don't have to know what or where they are or anything—I just need you to find me an Alpha, there's gotta still be _something_ on this planet.”

“I'm sure I really don't want to ask this question, but _why_ do you need blood from an Alpha?” Ligthart asks with a sigh. 

“I can make a weapon that kills Leviathans with it. Well. An In-Case-of-Emergency weapon, anyway. It's got some... issues that come with it. But. Still. It's useful.”

“ _Oh_ , well, why didn't you just _start_ with that?” 

“Hey, Ligthart, I can kill Leviathans if I get blood from an Alpha?” Dean tries again.

“That sounds wonderful, kid, I'll see what I can do,” Ligthart drawls. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Ligthart.” 

He pockets his phone and leaves through his front door to cross the hall to check in, briefly, where Sam and Cas have been in the process all morning trying to make the offices into a livable space. It won't ever be something like Dean has; Michael used brainwashed monsters to carve him his den. Those monsters might even still be around, but like hell is Dean bothering them. 

They've got a little kitchenette at least with a sink and what used to be a microwave (and might be able to get revived with the right care and parts) and a dinky bathroom. Dean had said Sam can, obviously, use Dean's _good_ kitchen and _good_ bathroom. He expects Sam to be around the penthouse more than his makeshift apartment, anyway.

By the afternoon, Dean's startled by a call from Ligthart. “Hello?” 

“Got your blood. Where can I meet you?”

Dean pulls his phone back to stare at the time before placing it back along his ear. “Dude, it's only been like five hours.”

“I'm very competent, Dean.”

“Does that mean there's an Alpha somewhere in Kansas City—wait, never mind, I said I didn't want to know. Uhhh, can you just swing by Hitomi, or is that too inconvenient for you?”

“Nah, it's fine. I should be there in about forty-five minutes. Want me to bring you lunch?”

Dean stares in the direction of his fridge. Shit. He's going to have to start changing his grocery order with Sam here now. “Yeah, lunch would be great, Ligthart,” he answers. Not that Sam couldn't just go to the grocery store like a normal human being. But even Adam, generally, just leeches from Dean's delivery. He might pick up something while he's out walking, but food's not exactly a concern when you're housing an archangel. 

Speaking of... Dean's not sure where Adam hightailed it for the day. Anywhere but here. Anything to avoid helping Sam and Cas “move in.” Dean can't say much, it isn't like he's done a lot to help. Dean... doesn't think they're ever going to forgive them for Jack and that's—it's fine, it's just hard. He doesn't know how to act around them. Better to just sit back and let them settle.

So having a dragon over might not be the best idea. 

Hell.

>>actually ligthart can we meet at the cafe on 11th? should maybe get some fresh air  
>>... If you say so, kid.

Dean swears, knowing he's freaked Ligthart out a bit. Dean doesn't _meet people_ in public. They come to fetch him, and he leaves with them. Still, he wastes time until it's reasonable to leave, and grabs his jacket, popping over to check again on the two. It's slowly looking more like an apartment and less like office space. “Hey, guys, I'm heading out for a bit. Don't get into trouble. Bug Michael if you do.”

The sad thing is Lucifer would be a little less pissed to “help” them out, but it isn't like they'd ever ask him for it.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam's voice drifts back to him from somewhere Dean can't see.

He goes to meet Ligthart, and he's too damned relieved that the dragon beat him. He ducks his head from the blatant stares he receives, the hush that skirts away from him as he slips into a seat across from his friend. These days, thankfully, most of the nearby places don't clear out the moment Dean walks in, but his presence never goes unnoticed. 

“Everything okay?” Ligthart immediately asks.

Dean winces. “Fine,” he says, and he wonders just how many times that word has rang through his thoughts in under twenty-four hours. He knows he should tell Ligthart about Sam and Cas, but he doesn't _want_ to talk about them, not right now. 

Ligthart, clearly, doesn't believe him, but after they order he pulls out a corked vial of deep crimson. “Alpha blood,” he announces, passing it to Dean. 

Dean whistles. “Sure easier than the last time I had to get this. Got a meeting for grave-digging later, and I'll have everything I need.”

“You said that there were... _issues_ that came with it?”

“Oh, yeah, when I shanked the asshole in charge of the Leviathans—Dick Roman, maybe you remember hearing the name—that's how me and the angel ended up in Purgatory. Went nuclear, _super_ gross, blew us into Purgatory.”

“And you want to use that weapon.”

“Not particularly. That's why I said In Case of Emergency. I'm a little less worried about Purgatory in the right company, and I like having an ace in my pocket.”

“Seems mostly sane,” Ligthart agrees. 

Dean swirls the blood around until their food comes, keeping up with idle chatter, and Dean thinks he's glad that he decided to move the meeting out of the penthouse instead. _This_ is as close to _normal_ as Dean can get, and Dean wants to hold onto that for as long as he's able. 

“The Alpha know who you were giving this to?”

“No,” Ligthart admits. “They knew what it was _for_ , and I think they may have still given it to me if they knew it was for you, but it was too much a risk to chance.”

“Yeah, no, good call.”

Dean's thankful Ligthart doesn't pry into what was bothering him, even if he very much seems to want to. “Enjoy your grave-digging,” he says when they part, and Dean waves him off.

He picks up a shovel on his way home. 

It's probably the most he's made the populace uncomfortable since the Redecorating Project, and Dean can't help but grin. 

Adam comes back later in the day and calls Dean out on avoiding his family, to which Dean calls him a hypocrite, and they equally avoid their family until Lucifer shows up as the sun starts to set. 

“Only the two of you?” Lucifer chirps when he sees them, raising a brow. “Well, lucky me.” 

“Dean's avoiding them,” Adam says.

Dean balls up a piece of paper and flicks it at Adam, who spectacularly fails to dodge. Michael's not home, then. 

“Maybe _they're_ avoiding _me_ ,” Dean reasons. 

“Very mature,” Adam says.

“Says the guy that was out _all_ day.”

“I'm _always_ out all day.”

Damn. He's got a point there. 

“Do they _know_ you're going grave-digging with me?” Lucifer asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Dean side-eyes him. “Obviously not,” he answers. “Though they'll draw the conclusions all on their own once I have the knife. Also don't say 'with me' like you're putting in any effort outside of transport.” 

“I'm a champion for moral support,” Lucifer says blandly.

“Right. Adam, if they come around and ask where I'm at, just say I'm out. I rather them not start bitching at me until tomorrow.” 

“Ashamed of me, Dean?” Lucifer sings. 

“Ashamed of my _life_ ,” Dean snaps, dragging himself out of his chair and ignoring Adam's laughter. He grabs his shovel from where it's propped against a wall and looks pointedly at Lucifer. “Remember, Resurrection Catholic Cemetery.” 

Partway into digging, Dean wonders why shoveling is so therapeutic. He wonders why Lucifer sitting cross-legged nearby, almost in a meditative state, is only adding to his calm. He'll take what he can get. Build up his walls so that when everything threatens to crash down after he brings his family to the Circle meeting tomorrow, maybe he'll still have his foundation in tact. 

“They will forgive you,” Lucifer says, hushed, into the dark after Dean's taken a breather, leaning on his shovel and surveying his work. 

“I don't care,” Dean answers. Lucifer makes an exasperated sound, and Dean bristles. “I _don't_. They're here. They're alive. That's what matters and—I'm not having this conversation with you.” Dean shivers suddenly and he doesn't think it's from the night. He turns his gaze to Lucifer and even in the dark he knows the devil's watching him. “ _What_?” he snaps. 

“Nothing,” Lucifer says easily.

Dean resumes his digging as a distraction. “No, go on, out with it.”

“I thought you didn't want to have this conversation,” Lucifer lulls.

“We're not,” Dean argues. “We're not talking _my_ issues, we're talking about what's got your wings in a tangle.”

“Didn't know you cared, Dean.”

Bullshit. “Keeping crap bottled up isn't healthy.”

The cold clings to Dean and he double-takes as Lucifer has broken his meditative posture, leaning forward, hands pressing to the grass and dirt, eyes the faintest gleam of color. “Why, Dean,” he says, “ _that_ is wise advice—it is exactly what I was going to say to _you_.”

“Devious little shit,” Dean tells him, but there's no fire in his voice. The cold vanishes, and Dean has this funny suspicion that Lucifer's proud of himself. Jerk. He digs. “I don't _want_ them to forgive me,” Dean admits. “It's like Adam—not that Adam ever lets me bring it up, he'll still sidestep that conversation—I don't want him to forgive me, either. Because he shouldn't. No one should forgive me for anything.”

“No one should forgive you for Michael, you mean,” Lucifer says. 

Dean shrugs.

Lucifer hums. 

Dean's shovel hits wood as Lucifer says, “I forgive you,” in a quiet voice, “for killing me.”

Dean freezes. He looks to Lucifer. The moon only gives off so much light, but Dean's night vision has long since adjusted. He can make out enough of Lucifer's facial expressions and he—he doesn't think Lucifer is just _screwing with him_. 

“Why?” he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say.

It's Lucifer's turn to shrug, like he doesn't know what to do with his body now that Dean is openly gaping at him. 

“It's complicated, I suppose,” Lucifer answers. “But it doesn't make it any less true.” 

Dean wants to push, to pry, but Lucifer seems confused by his own words, and Dean thinks “complicated” may just be the tip of the iceberg. He lets it go. 

“Okay,” he says, “thanks?” And god, this is stupid, he's really _not_ used to people forgiving him, how's he even _supposed_ to respond? 

Ignore it and not say anything else on the matter.

He thunks his shovel once more against the casket. “Let's get these bones and go. I need a nap.”

“If you did as much walking as Adam, you'd be in better shape.”

“Adam's literally super-glued to archangel. He cheats.”

Lucifer chuckles. “Now, there's imagery.” 

“Shut it. Are you gonna help me with this or not?” 

“I suppose,” Lucifer answers easily, unfolding from his seated position and getting to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta wonder where Ligthart turned over an Alpha. (He's not telling.)
> 
> ngl grave-digging super caught me off guard while I was writing it


	79. 79

**79**

Wednesday, March 10, 2320

“Dean, are we going to die?” Sam asks.

“No, Sam, you're not going to die. Look, I told you, you're _way safer_ than I'd ever be, and I feel pretty damn safe when I'm at these meetings.”

“I guess if you're used to fighting monsters,” Sam reasons with a sigh. 

Dean bites his tongue. He doesn't think his brother wants to hear that Dean would die in even a one-on-one fight with most monsters, and most of the city likely knows it. Dean isn't a Hunter anymore. It freaks him out just thinking about _trying_ to sharpen his skills again.

Anything remotely close to being a _soldier_ just crashes his mind into a pit of memories he doesn't want to acknowledge he has: destroying worlds. 

“Yeah, sure,” he manages, and while he thinks he convinces Sam, Cas looks sharply to him. Great. He hopes that doesn't come back to bite him. “Just try not to start a fight, Sam. They're literally the ones between me and anyone that still wants me dead.”

“ _We_ can do that,” Sam argues. 

“Okay, but I'd rather you didn't,” Dean says with a sigh. He leads them into Howl at the Moon and he's starting to think this is going to be a lot harder than Adam had been. Kuehner is sitting at the corner table with Hava, notebooks spread out around the kitsune. Dean approaches them, waving his hands towards the table, “What's all this, then?”

Hava says nothing, grabbing one of notebooks, flipping to a page, and checking off two names. She then reaches around to a box between her and the wall and pulls out two tablets to hand to Dean.

He blinks at them. How the hell long has it been since he's seen a _tablet_?

When he doesn't take them, Hava lets out a breath of irritation, “For you and Adam,” she explains. 

He accepts them very carefully and looks to Kuehner for an explanation. Hava's never been one for many words.

“Bunch of Circles overseas have been getting folks together with the right qualifications to get them working again. They've been delivering boxes around the world to different Circles. Once that's done, they're going to start trying to get them out to the humans and teach them how to use them.”

“Still no internet though,” Dean gripes. 

“You poor thing,” Kuehner says. “More friends?” 

Dean grins. “Not bad for a high margin of error, huh?” 

“You...” she says, nonplussed. 

Dean is _incredibly_ pleased to render her speechless. Even Hava looks up from her work, blinking at Kuehner in surprise.

The dragon leans back, hand to her forehead, laughing loudly. 

“Dammit, Dean, don't break our leaders!” Morris yells from across the room as he arrives. 

Dean smirks at him and then looks back at Kuehner, bouncing a little on his heels. “My brother, Sam,” he says, chuckling at Sam's very confused expression, and then he points to Cas, “And Castiel—the angel you heard about in Purgatory. The vampire, Benny, came through as well. He already got a phone, but these two are gonna need one.”

Hava nods in acknowledgment, adding a comment on another notebook. 

“You damned fool, I can't believe you pulled it off,” she says. She looks at the pair and grins. “It's good to meet you both. My name is Kuehner, one of the leaders of this Circle. The vamp that doesn't know how to keep his voice down is Morris, another one of the leaders. This is Hava, our right-hand. She... might have some leftover tablets for you. We'll have to see by the end of the week.”

“It's fine, you can have mine, Sam,” Dean says, handing one of them to his brother. “Like I'm going to use it if I can't surf the internet.” 

“You mean look at porn,” Sam mumbles. Louder, he says, “It's nice to meet you.”

“You 'heard about' me?” Cas asks uncomfortably.

“She was in Purgatory when we were,” Dean explains. “Good thing we didn't have to deal with any dragons; the Leviathans were bad enough.”

“Most of us just wanted to be left alone,” she says. “And we have the muscle to back it, so few dared.” 

“I see,” Cas says.

Hava settles back, pleased with her notes, then checks off two more names and hands two tablets to Kuehner. “One for Ligthart,” she says. 

“Ligthart's not coming?” Dean asks. 

“He's taking care of a situation,” Kuehner answers.

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably not.”

“So it doesn't have to do with me.”

“Probably not,” she repeats, but there's just enough hesitance that Dean tenses.

“Kuehner, what the _hell_?” Dean demands. Hava glares at him for raising his voice, and he swallows down his next words. He pisses off Hava and he's going to have another showdown with Arrel and no one wants that, especially since Arrel was doing him a favor. 

Kuehner tilts her head to Sam and Cas then back to him, a question there.

Dean breathes, and says more quietly for Hava's sake, “It's fine.”

“There was a... rather sizable group coming into the city wanting 'the vessel's head on a pike.' The Northeast Pack informed the Circle and Ligthart went to take care of them.”

Northeast. Garth.

Dean draws in a breath. He knows the Circle had been “fielding” problems that had to do with his livelihood, but he'd been hoping by _now_ it had lessened. Not that he ever heard about the issues before, so he shouldn't be surprised that he still doesn't hear about them now. 

“Okay,” Dean says, not happy, but there's nothing he can do outside of seeing if one of the archangels would go to help, though Ligthart should be good enough on his own. “Can you tell me when you know he's sorted it out?”

She nods. “I will.”

“Thanks.”

Dean pulls away from the table and finds one of his own, nerves getting the best of him even as Sam and Cas settle into seats around him. 

“Dean?” Sam asks. 

“It's... fine,” Dean says, starting to grow more sick every time he says the word. It's not. He's barely fought his own battles and before it was tolerable because he didn't have _friends_ fighting them for him—he just had some warped monster organization. But now they _are_ friends and that _doesn't seem fair_. 

“It doesn't have to be?” Sam offers. 

Dean grunts. He places the tablet for Adam on the table and sends Garth a text.

>>thank your pack for me?  
>>Oh how did you find out?  
>>kuehner. ligthart not being at the meeting  
>>That makes sense. Dean, dragons are terrifying.   
>>you're there?  
>>I'm staying out of the way, but yeah.  
>>is he okay?  
>>Yeah he's definitely fine. Don't worry about it.

Dean sighs in relief. “Garth says Ligthart is definitely taking care of things.” 

“You were afraid he wasn't?” Cas asks.

“No. But I don't _like_ anyone defending my virtue or whatever.”

“You don't fight anymore?” 

_Dammit_ , Cas. Dean holds back a groan. “No. I don't. I try not to, anyway.” He sighs and tries to ignore Sam's instant concern. It's maybe better than the glares and snipped words the last two days, but only fractionally. “I haven't been able to finish most fights without getting my ass saved by Lucifer.” He thinks about mentioning Adaira, his eyes casting to the side like he has any idea where the hellhound would be, but decides that's better to leave out. 

“ _Lucifer's_ saved you?” Sam asks. 

“Ye-ep,” Dean mutters. 

“ _Why_?”

Dean ogles him. “Because he _needed_ me alive. Why do you think, Sam?” 

He thinks of Lucifer standing over him in the bookstore. Of putting his _trust_ in Dean. Of Lucifer forgiving him

He makes a face, trying to push it all from his mind. Added to things that Sam _does not_ need to know is the complex twist of Dean's emotions. “It's less important than it was,” he says into the quiet. “I'm not the sole soul empowering God.”

“So then he's just going to let you die now?” Sam asks, angry.

“No,” Dean says. The room is filling up. The meeting will start soon, but not as soon as Dean _needs_ it to. 

“And you can be sure of that. Really.” 

“Yes,” Dean answers, and the certainty should _bother_ him. He knows it bothers Cas, who hasn't said anything while the brothers kept at it. But as long as there's a hellhound on him, Dean knows. And Lucifer isn't going to just strip Adaira from him without telling him. 

“ _Dean_ —”

“Sammy, I'm not discussing this,” he interrupts. He's at his limit. If he's going to discuss the enigma that is Lucifer with anyone, it's going to be Adam or Michael. Which is also fucked up on a different level, but he knows they have an understanding that Sam and Cas don't, and they've already seen him at his worst. 

“We're just concerned, Dean,” Cas says at last.

“I know. I get it, I do. But you gotta understand that Lucifer and I have been in each other's grill for _awhile_ now and I know a bit how to handle that.” 

He knows there's more they want to say and he's damn grateful when Kuehner's voice rings through the room.


	80. 80

**80**

Thursday, March 11, 2320

“Dean, I don't—I don't know what you want me to _say_.”

“Sam, look, I'm not asking you to trust them! I'm asking you to trust me!” 

“Dean, _you_ trust them. That's the problem. They both have tried to kill you in the past! Multiple times! _You've_ tried to kill them and you _did_ kill Lucifer!” 

Yeah, well, he was forgiven for that last one.

He doesn't tell Sam that. That'll just send them down a whole new argument. 

Dean snaps, excessively sarcastic, “Sure, Sammy, I forgot. I forgot all of it.” He spins around, furious, then looks back at his brother. “Come on, man! I know! Okay? Think of how it was for me! I was stuck in this world with _Lucifer_ , alone, for months before we even got Michael and Adam here!”

“And now you think he's just going to keep you alive? He's got no reason to,” Sam argues, “Lucifer doesn't just 'keep' people around!” 

Dean bites his tongue on _he kept you around_ because the absolute _last_ thing he needs is this breaking out into a fight and Sam finding out about Adaira. That will very much end the conversation and not in Dean's favor. 

He needs to get a handle on this.

“Sam, believe it or not I didn't have your brought here to lecture me about the archangels. I brought you here so _you could live_ and you could _help me_ with the damn planet itself! Not any of the people working to save it!”

“Monsters. You mean monsters.”

Dean swears. He should have, really, prepared himself better for this inevitable conversation. But he'd... forgotten, he supposes. Under the weight of all of the memories from _Michael_. He'd forgotten just how _bad_ him and his brother could get at it. 

“Sure aren't humans coming to _my_ aid,” Dean spits. He backs away, throwing his arms up. “But you know what, fine, Sammy. Don't trust me. Don't trust anyone.”

He leaves Sam's apartment before a fight can start and slams back into the penthouse across the hall. Wonders if he could get Lucifer to order Adaira to never attack Sam or Cas, even if they go for his throat. 

But he thinks Lucifer would just scoff at him.


	81. 81

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9lV5-wbPqw&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=6) A Meaningful Moment Through a Meaning(less) Process by Stars Of The Lid

**81**

Friday, March 12, 2320

“Where is your family, Dean?” Michael says aloud as he snaps the spear. He looks to Dean in their mind, pity in his eyes. “Maybe they knew it was a losing battle and let you be a sacrifice.”

“That isn't what happened,” Dean argues, but he doesn't have an _answer_ for Michael, and Michael _knows it_.

“If you think they're going to come save you last minute, you're wrong. I can't even sense Castiel.” Michael leans towards Dean. “They abandoned you, just as you always knew they would.”

“ _No_!” Dean yells.

“Then,” Michael whispers, “where are they?”

Dean doesn't know. 

“I suppose they didn't want to enjoy the festivities. Shame.” He throws both halves of the spear across the room. “At least you made it.” Michael smiles, his reflection on the glass as he turns and stares out at the city that would become his seat of power. “And we have dearest Jack to keep us company, hm? If it makes you feel any better, Dean, they didn't come for him, either. And you all preach _family_ , like it means something.” Michael growls, “Family is nothing.”

Dean's so tired, and he's hurting, and he can't help but just _agree_ , ever-so-slightly. That festering thought burrowing under his skin, nagging at his mind because they should have _been here_ , with him. 

_They were with him. They were with him and they never stopped fighting for him, they tried to get into Dean's mind just to get Michael_ out _, they didn't_ abandon _Dean, the new memories are_ wrong _. They were only gone because Dean_ made sure _that they were._

Family isn't here with him, now, though. Because they always, _always_ have to fight about each other's decisions. Who's right and who's wrong. And Dean just needs help. He needs _their_ help, and he doesn't _need_ them to work together with anyone, he just needs them to not throw a titanium wrench at the heads of everyone else. He just needs them not to _abandon_ him again—

_That didn't happen. That didn't happen that didn't happen._

Even if it was time travel. Even if it was Dean's own doing. Even if it happened differently the first time... 

It still _happened_. None of that erases the fact that Dean and Jack were _alone_ to face Michael and he will _never_ forget that quake in his heart, Michael making sure to remind him every few decades. 

_Adam blocks out Dean's view of the rain pelting down at the city._

_Dean ignores him._

“And now you get to see it,” Michael continues, a grin playing on their face as he glances at a distant clock, “everything your mistake will make possible—all the bloodshed, all the death—all on you.”

_Adam sighs. “Hey,” his voice is soft, “will you just look at me?”_

_Dean doesn't really_ look _at Adam so much as see everything around him._

_“Yeah,” Adam continues, “I know you don't want to, but we both need you to.”_

The clock blinks 11:59PM.

_It shouldn't be Adam getting him out of this. It shouldn't be the brother_ he _abandoned pulling him from_ these _thoughts._

_He pivots on a heel and puts distance between them._

_“Dean,” Adam chides._

The numbers click, 12:00AM.

Michael snaps. 

_Dean's mind jolts, centers, rights itself as that sound echoes through him as a death knell._

“No,” Dean answers, finally, the memories clearing. “Go away, Adam.” 

“No,” Adam mirrors. 

“ _Why_?!” Dean demands. “You could literally be anywhere else in the world—why are you _here_?” 

Adam shrugs. “I like it here. And rent's free.”

Dean scoffs, but he thinks Adam is playing his answers _smart_. If he spouted anything about _family_ it would have turned out with another Dean-Michael face off because Dean would have _lost his shit_. 

“I could swaps 'rooms' with Sam, though,” Adam says slowly as Dean tries to get a handle of his breathing.

Dean locks up. He's always figured Adam would ditch him eventually, but after their last few fights, he thinks Adam is stubborn enough to stay. _But_...

“Please don't,” he says shakily. “I—you've dealt with too much of my shit, Adam. I can't do this again with Sammy. I can't.”

“I kinda figured, but I wanted to make the offer.”

“Thanks, Adam. Really.” He runs a hand over his hair. 

“Anyway, it's better for Sam's sanity if he's not constantly stuck around Archangel Central,” Adam says.

Dean snorts. “Lucifer's not around _that_ much.”

Adam eyes him for too long, but before he can snap _what_ , Adam replies, “He's been around a lot more since February.” 

Dean swallows. He could pinpoint _exactly_ when Lucifer started coming around regularly. “I guess,” he answers. “He's good at the disappearing act though. It'd be a good three or four weeks before I'd see him again. He's probably due for another one of those.”

Dean doesn't think he'll take it well this time if Lucifer waltzes off again like that.

He needs to get over himself.


	82. 82

**82**

Tuesday, March 16, 2320

“Sam, how are you doing with all this?”

“I'm fine.”

“Why?”

Sam looks up because of the questions Castiel could have asked, he wasn't expecting that one. “Because I have to be, Cas. We both do, for Dean. He's forced himself to be comfortable surrounded by monsters. Around _Lucifer_. It's not right. And I'm not—I'm not going to try and topple that support, but we can give him something _else_ to turn to.”

“And if he chooses to throw his support with them—all of them—over us?” Castiel asks, careful.

Sam says nothing for a long while. “We'll just have to find some way to accept that,” he answers. He frowns, looking lost. “I think if we don't... we'll just... we'll lose him, Cas. As it is, he's—” Sam breaks off, hanging his head. 

“He's very far from our reach,” Castiel finishes. “I'm still... uncertain about Michael, but I think Adam has more of an understanding of his surroundings than anyone. He's more open with his emotions; I think if we keep an eye on him, we'll be able to tell if there's anything wrong with Dean and his... support circle.”

“'Circle,'” Sam says. “Right.”

“I did not mean—”

“I know. But they're kind of one in the same, aren't they?”

“I suppose.”

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I wish Benny hung around.” 

“... There's always Garth.”

“Y-Yeah...”


	83. 83

**83**

Wednesday, March 17, 2320

Benny, as it turns out, didn't make it far. Oh, his plan was definitely to hit the ground running and be out of the city before the morning comes, but when he'd gotten to the outskirts he'd come across a child that was wincing, leaning against a tree and holding her ankle. 

When he approached, her head snapped up and her eyes took on a yellow hue.

So, maybe not just a little girl. 

He holds up his hands. “Don't want to hurt ya, kiddo, looks like you've done that enough on your own.”

She huffs and dismisses him easily. And, well, that's just rude. 

“Do you need help?” he asks her.

“I'm fine. It'll heal.”

“Why are you out here?”

“I was chasing someone. They got away.” She nods to her ankle. “I was stupid.”

“Well, you're young, you've got time to learn.”

She makes a miffed sound. “I'm not young.” 

“Oh,” he says lightly, “my mistake, Princess.” 

The yellow is back in her gaze and there's something deadly when she looks to him that second time. “I'm over three-hundred years old,” she says. 

And _ah_. That's... He'd been told that it was three-hundred years in the future. Three-hundred years of Michael's reign, manipulating monsters, subjugated humans. 

“Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage, I just got in from Purgatory not too long ago. I'm still... learning the ropes.”

She eases. “I've heard stories of Purgatory,” she offers. 

“I think I'm gonna miss it,” he admits, though he stares longingly towards the forest behind him. He sighs. Another time. “Do you need help getting back to the city?”

She regards him for a long moment before coming to a decision. “If I'm not back by nightfall my parents will worry, and I lost my phone.”

“Okay. Let's get you back then?”

She tenses. “If you try to carry me, I will bite you.”

Benny laughs. “No carrying, got it.” He offers her a hand, and she takes it.

“Thank you,” she sighs, careful of her injury as they move.

“No problem, lucky I came 'round. I'm Benny, by the way.”

“Gertie.”


	84. 84

**84**

Wednesday, March 17, 2320

“ _Gertie_ , thank goodness!” 

“We were so worried!”

Benny watches as the not-exactly-a-child is enveloped into the arms of her presumed parents. They had been walking for over two hours, taking breaks whenever Gertie seemed to remember that she might need them. Had she not been injured, it would have taken half the time, maybe less with her werewolf stamina. Eventually they came across a reasonably-sized park tucked beyond some industrial buildings, and a few compact houses huddled in the middle. 

Benny _knows_ he's being watched, but when he looks towards the windows, there isn't anyone there. 

“He helped me back,” Gertie says, turning to watch Benny. “He says he came from Purgatory.”

The pair frown at him. The man says, “You didn't happen to come in with Sam and Castiel?”

Benny blinks. “Ah.” 

“Because otherwise,” the woman adds, a touch of warning to her voice, “there is quite a lot of concern to that statement.”

“You know them, then?” he asks, careful.

“They're our friends,” she says. 

“Castiel carried my soul out,” he says.

The tension eases completely from the air. Benny hadn't noticed how suffocating it had been. They make quick introductions before ushering Gertie off to get cleaned up for dinner, and Benny knows he's still being watched, but the level has lessened. 

“How must it be for a child?” Benny finds himself asking. “Both a kid, but three centuries older?”

Bess's shoulders slump. “She doesn't remember much, thankfully. I don't think her mind could process it all. I see her staring off into space sometimes, and I wonder how much of it is there.”

“She has aged though. We see the old her, sometimes. But she was a runner during all of this and... that's what's left behind”

“She said she was chasing someone when I found her, but she lost them because she got hurt.”

Bess looks towards the houses, frowning. “Will have to see what that was about. She's chased people out of the city before, so maybe...” 

“Come on,” Garth says, “it's getting late and Gertie's probably thrown you off your course, we can offer you a meal and somewhere to stay for the night.”


	85. 85

**85**

Tuesday, March 23, 2320

Sam watches as his brother hand-washes his dishes, almost like he's forgotten Sam is there. Sam thinks maybe in _general_ Dean sometimes forgets him and Cas are _here_. 

It makes Sam want to keep his mouth closed and not ask the question that's been tumbling around in his mind. 

No.

He's put it off long enough. 

“Dean... what about Mom?”

Dean sniffs. “I thought about it,” he says, not taking his eyes from the plate in his hand. “I thought about it _a lot_. Michael never got to her, you know? I don't know if she died or got turned or what, but she never got brought before me to be tortured. Her and Bobby. And I just... she didn't get _out_ but she was farther removed than any of us ever got. I can't... bring her into this. This world would only be her biggest nightmare.”

“Shouldn't she get to make that choice?”

“Why?” Dean asks honestly, turning his head towards Sam. “She made enough choices without consulting us.”

“But she...”

“Changed? Wasn't gonna do it again? Doubt it. Sammy, trust me, she's better off. But hey, you wanna convince one of the archangels to wing back there when we've got no idea where she is and when? Be my guest.” He puts the plate up to dry and shakes his wet hands and Sam leans away when he gets splashed. “They're gonna know I'm against it though, so good luck to you.”

Sam's got this funny feelings he's not the Winchester capable of convincing any archangel of _anything_. He wonders if his brother even _realizes_ the influence he has.

“Dean,” Sam says, calling his brother back to him. “About Jack.”

Dean goes rigid. Sam looks down. 

“I should have told you sooner,” he admits, but it was _hard_. Sam hasn't _stopped_ hurting from Jack and he sometimes thinks that Dean doesn't even care, but then he remembers just how long they've all been dead for Dean and he wonders just how numb Dean is to everything. How numb he _has_ to be. “He wanted you to know that it was okay. H-He knew he had to stay.” He wanted Sam to forgive Dean but that's... that's going to take time. 

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but then shakes his head, and leaves Sam alone in the kitchen, disappearing into his room. Sam's shoulders slump.


	86. 86

**86**

Wednesday, March 31, 2320

To say that the pair of archangels have _given up_ is an understatement. 

Of the realms Earth had the most perseverance, and that was _saying something_. 

Hell and Heaven were in perpetual disarray that they begrudgingly realize one archangel can't restore alone. 

Which is how they started a system for trading souls and blending titles. Lucifer would always be King of Hell and Michael would always be Viceroy of Heaven, but for better or worse they've agreed to take mutual custody of the other domain, even as Michael feels like he's _burning away_ part of himself in the agreement. 

_“You can revoke it when things are fixed though, right?”_ Adam had asked.

_“Can I, really? How do I come back from this?”_

But Michael gets souls that _belong_ to him and it gives him a little hope that Lucifer hadn't tarnished _all_ the misplaced souls even though he very well could have. Made demons out of what should have been Light. And Michael realizes that Lucifer _hadn't_ kept Heaven afloat by _mistake_. And it's strange. To see his brother like this. Who's always scheming, always working up to some plan—and Michael is sure he still is, but it's only with half ambition, his goals out of habit more than desire. 

Michael doesn't tell his brother that he thinks it's all “bullshit.” He has to keep Adam from doing the same. 

_“He's being stupid,”_ Adam had argued. 

_“Yes, and you absolutely cannot tell him that.”_

They switch off sometimes, Michael going to Hell and Lucifer going to Heaven. Michael would like to think he's getting the lesser end of the deal, but then Lucifer always looks spooked after, and Michael tactfully doesn't ask if something happened. As much as Michael hates Hell, feels the distant residual magic of the Cage (does his brother simply get accustomed to it?), it isn't as empty as Heaven. 

The demons—now ranging near-to three hundred—don't disturb him. They seem intrigued, some of them cautious, but reserved. Only once or twice one spits the name _Michael_ where he can hear and Michael understands, remembers how Hell changed when they were in it, that his other self broke Hell with the rest of the world. 

He just hadn't taken it so literally. 

They're due to switch off again but Lucifer hasn't left Heaven when Michael returns, even after he had taken extra time to check in on Adam. But he finds Lucifer standing in one of Michael's newest wings, his most recent attempt at forming personal Heavens. 

“What are you still doing here?” Michael asks, “I would have thought you'd depart as soon as you could,” which is the nicest way Michael can say that he thinks Lucifer is scared to be here. 

“I know we're trying to fix the problem,” Lucifer says. “But what if I have a soul that belongs to Hell, and I wish for it to be in Heaven?”

Michael frowns. His confusion is so strong that Adam asks him what's wrong and he doesn't know how to answer. He can't imagine a single soul that Lucifer would care about where it ultimately ends up. 

“Who?” he asks after too long.

A sneer pulls at Lucifer's face, and there's a darkness there that Michael is familiar with, remembers his brother on a battlefield for the Apocalypse—something he hasn't seen much of in this time, and it's jarring. 

“My vessel's,” Lucifer forces out. “I found it.”

“Oh,” Michael says, and he hadn't meant to say _anything_. Anyone that ever said “yes” to Lucifer was damned by nature. To agree to shelter the devil, no matter the reason, no matter if they were manipulated into it, was a sin. 

_“Michael,”_ Adam's voice rings through his mind, almost an eerie sound, _“You tried to start the Apocalypse, too. Shouldn't by that rite also damn your hosts?”_

_“No!”_ Michael yells, his response enough that his emotions shake Heaven and Lucifer turns to look at him in surprise. _“No. Adam. No. Your soul doesn't belong to Hell. It belongs to m—Heaven. Lucifer didn't just try to start the Apocalypse, he—the war—”_

_“The war that you were also a part of. Michael, you were going to aid him in nuking the planet.”_

Michael is trembling with power. He stalks away from Lucifer, movements disorderly. Worse, Adam's voice isn't _accusing_. It's calm. Matter-of-fact. Trying to reason with Michael and he doesn't want to _see it_ , wants to argue that he was the same person then as he is now, that he had sympathy back then, that he was _different_ than Lucifer. 

But he wasn't, was he? He was almost worse, wasn't he? He was so desperately following his Father's plan, not knowing how many times the same story had already played out. Even _Lucifer_ , while still playing his role in the script, was trying to _fight back_ , trying to go against it as he always did, always would.

If they had died in that fight, he's not certain if Adam's soul would have gone to Heaven or Hell, and he wouldn't have cared either way. 

“I'll accept the soul,” Michael says, and it's taking everything in him to agree. 

“Michael?” Lucifer asks, hesitant, nervous. 

“Do not make me repeat myself, brother,” Michael growls. 

_“Michael, come back to Earth,”_ Adam says, insistent. 

Michael doesn't even hesitate, leaving Lucifer alone again in Heaven and sinking his grace into Adam's soul, embracing it with all the love that he didn't have for a singular human—for any human—when he tried to start the Apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I wonder if you can create a fax machine for souls.~~


	87. 87

**87**

Friday, April 9, 2320

“What are you doing, Sam?” 

Sam glances up at Castiel, then back at his books strewn in a ring around his tablet, including the journals that Dean lent him. “Uh,” he says, feeling sheepish. “Trying to... figure out the state of things, I guess.”

“Meaning?”

“You know... the world,” Sam says. “I keep asking Dean questions about what businesses are operational and he keeps saying he _doesn't know_. I got 'you know, cars and shit, definitely no governments' out of him and...” Sam leans his arms to the desk, hands on his head as he makes a sound of dismay. “I get it. I get why he hasn't checked. But _I_ need to know.” 

“I understand. I've done many flights around the planet. I could help? Or take you anywhere you might need.”

Sam perks up at that. “Dean said there was a prophet, right? I'd like to meet her. Do you know where she might be?” 

“She... moves around a lot, all over the world. More than I do.”

Sam frowns. “How?”

Castiel looks away. “Lucifer,” he says. “She stays in touch with all the Circles, although at this point I don't know why, what else she could do to encourage... monsters... to follow God.”

“Maybe just out of habit. Maybe too used to traveling or something...” Sam shakes his head. “I wish I could figure out what Lucifer's game plan was.”

“Power, I imagine,” Castiel replies. “What he told us in the past was the truth. He needs God empowered so he can be unbound.”

“Right. Have those bindings done anything to you?”

“No. I... am under the impression that I'm too...” He sighs. “'Weak' to be under their influence.”

“Well, in this case, that's a good thing? That almost puts you a step over Lucifer and Michael.” 

“I suppose,” Castiel says at length. “I... believe the prophet is somewhere in Europe. I have something of a read on her. Whenever you wish...”

Sam looks over his work and then turns off the tablet. “I'm good if you're not busy.”

“I'm trying to keep out of Heaven,” Castiel admits. “Operating around Michael was hard enough... but now there is Lucifer, too, and I don't particularly want to be involved with... _that_.”

“I get it. I'm surprised Michael is handling it.” 

“The two of them are... I don't understand them. They seem to be getting along well enough.” 

Sam thinks about what he's seen of Lucifer and Michael, and then what he's seen of Lucifer and Dean. He knows he's _told_ Cas that he doesn't want to mess with all that for Dean's sake _but_ if anyone expects him to be _happy_ about it... 

He sighs. 

“Her name's Ruth, right?”

Castiel nods, reaching out to clutch Sam's shoulder as he stands up. 

They immediately find themselves in a curving roadway, wrapped and snug around a pair of buildings with quite a lot of sound coming out of them, and the sky disorientingly darker than it had been in Missouri. Right. Time zones. “She's here?” Sam asks.

“... Yes,” Castiel answers. “I hadn't accounted for the time change. This might be a Circle meeting.”

Sam tenses. “Am I safe just walking in? … Are _you_ safe just walking in? How do we even find her among a room of monsters?”

“Sam, calm down,” Castiel says. 

Sam thinks that's a load of crap. 

“If something goes wrong, I'll fly us out of there,” he continues. “If we find their leaders, they can direct us.”

“Direct a couple of strangers looking for the prophet. Yeah, that's fine.”

A head pops around the doorway of one of the buildings. “It does help that you're very loud,” they say, unkempt hair hiding most of their face. “You're new. What part of town are you from?”

“Uh,” Sam says, trying to get a read on the stranger, “we're visiting from the States. Kansas City.”

“Oh.” Their expression goes blank. “Do you know Lucifer?”

“Unfortunately,” Sam says at the exact time Cas says, “He's my brother.” 

The figure snaps fingers at Sam. “Yeah, that's what I've heard about the guy.” He laughs, and looks to Castiel. “Another angel. That's...”

“My name is Castiel,” he says. “I'm not Michael.” 

The relief is almost too much for Sam.

“Alright. I can't imagine the Commandant going by any other name even if it was for a trick. Follow me. You need to speak with one of the leaders?”

“Yeah, that'd be good,” Sam says, steeling himself as the stranger holds open the door and allows them entry. It's a much smaller gathering than Kansas City, and Sam can't tell if their arrival was before the meeting was starting, or after, but they're led along the edges of the room towards a table up on a rise where a few figures are playing some sort of game. He doesn't recognize its pieces, carved out of what Sam hopes is wood, not bone. They stop playing when they see him and Cas. 

“Found some lurkers outside,” their guide says, pointing to them. “From ground zero.” They indicate Castiel specifically and add, “Castiel, an angel,” before darting away. 

The trio at the table regard them in silence.

“Hi,” Sam says. “Sorry. We didn't mean to just... drop in like this. It's still the afternoon back home.”

“What do you need?” one of them asks. 

“I... we were hoping to meet Ruth.” 

The tension immediately increases. Sam swallows. For the first time since... _ever_ , maybe, he's not sure if mentioning that his brother is Dean will be a surefire way to get him executed. 

“Why?”

“We wanted to learn from her,” Castiel answers while Sam flounders for words. “We weren't around when she first past through Kansas City, and I don't believe she's due back anytime soon.”

“You can watch over us if you want,” Sam says, even though holding a straight conversation with her _and_ shadows would be difficult. 

“No,” another at the table says, “but if you leave the bar with her, we will kill you. She's under my protection. I will not have that tested. Understand?” 

“Of course.”

They lean forward and point across the room to where a woman is sitting alone, eating a plate of food. 

Sam says a quick _“thank you”_ and him and Cas quickly leave the monster presence to approach the prophet, hoping he doesn't spook her. “Hi. I'm really sorry to interrupt you. My name is Sam Winchester.”

Her eyes narrow as she looks up from her meal to him. “Winchester,” Ruth repeats. “Any relation to _Dean_ Winchester?”

“He's my brother.”

She frowns, looks to Castiel, then back to Sam. “You must be the ones Lucifer was fetching.”

“You know about that?” Sam asks, startled. 

“He has to tell me these things in case they go horribly wrong and I end up stranded somewhere I'd prefer not to be,” she says blandly. 

“Has that happened before?” Cas asks.

“No. He plans ahead.” She pauses in thought, sighs, and gestures at the empty chairs. “Since you came all this way.” 

They sit at her offer, awkwardly clustered around the small table. 

“I just... really wanted to meet you,” Sam says.

“That makes one brother,” she replies. “Are you going to 'warn' me about Lucifer, too?”

That means Dean gave her _some_ kind of warning. That's good. Dean might be acting unsafe around Lucifer himself, but he's still smart enough to think about other people. 

“I guess not,” Sam admits. “I don't know what else I could say that Dean hasn't already.”

She shrugs. “So, you came from Purgatory?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Well, we came from the past. But we were in Purgatory for a bit.”

She nods, signaling behind him. “Three at that table are all dragons from Purgatory.”

Sam sucks in a breath. He's gotten kind of used to Ligthart and Kuehner but he didn't think... “I thought there was only something like fifty dragons?”

“Yes. Only one of them belongs to this town. The other two are visiting from other countries.” 

“Does that happen a lot?” Castiel asks. 

“Not as much as you'd think. Monsters like to stay put and focus on their homes. Only the angels fly around sometimes.” She tilts her head to Castiel. “But you'd know that, wouldn't you?” When he starts, she smiles. “I recognize your voice.”

“Uh,” Cas says, uneasy. 

“You're a lesser presence in my mind than Lucifer and Michael.”

“You hear them?” Sam asks. He remembers that prophets were able to tune into Angel Radio, but before there were _hundreds_ of angels, not three. “Lucifer and Michael? Talking to each other?”

“Sometimes,” she agrees. 

“What do they—” He has to force himself to slow down, but he didn't even think that maybe they could have a secret _in_ to what was going on with the archangels at any given time—something that Dean wouldn't be able to just ignore. “What do they say?”

She stares at him. “Wait,” she starts, “are you trying to use me for angel gossip?” 

“I—no. It's just that...” he trails off.

“You flew across the world for angel gossip,” she continues, incredulous.

“ _No_ ,” Sam insists. “We flew across the world because I don't understand how the world still operates because Dean hasn't cared to find out! I just... _sorry_. It seemed like an opportunity.” 

She regards him a moment, then, “They mostly talk about trading off Heaven-Hell duties,” she allows. “They don't have long, waxing, poetic conversations. Very to-the-point. You're not missing much.”

“Oh.” Sam supposes he shouldn't be surprised. 

“So. You want to know about the world?”


	88. 88

**88**

Tuesday, April 13, 2320

Surprise, surprise, Sam Winchester Hates Lucifer. 

Lucifer, of course, completely understands—but damn if it isn't exhausting. Lucifer has zero care for making Sam, or Castiel, more _comfortable_. The rest of them have learned to—in the base sense—live together. Lucifer gets along with Dean just fine. Better than fine if Lucifer would ever be perfectly honest with himself. Michael is much more of a shock. Lucifer had hoped that when he hauled Michael from the past that they would be able to get _some_ kind of reasonable working arrangement. He'd assumed it to be build your own fort and leave the other alone Forever. 

They'd done the build your own fort thing, yes, but they'd interacted more than Lucifer had been expecting and really that's mostly Dean's fault.

And now they both had mutual custody of Heaven and Hell. 

Stealing a crude phrase from Dean Winchester: _what the fuck?_

Adam was... tolerant of Lucifer. Only in recent months has that changed to something more, though what “more” entailed even Lucifer didn't understand.

But he found it interesting. Lucifer thinks he only _likes_ his brother _because_ of Adam's influence. A human influence. That should have been laughable at one point. Before his resurrection it certainly would have been; he would have the same aggressive disgust that Apocalypse Michael had. 

(Lucifer shivers, remembering the dive into Dean's mind and the two Michaels and Adam. He wishes he would forget but he knows he never will.) 

Point is: Sam Winchester Hates Lucifer and Lucifer just has to grin and bear it and basically ignore Sam's entire existence. It's either that or go completely toe to toe with the Hunter, but that will only be cathartic for maybe half an hour at most before it comes back to bite Lucifer in the form of Sam's brother. 

Dammit.

Sam, however, can't seem to meet Lucifer halfway with the Ignoring Plan. It'd worked just fine for weeks; what changed?

“What are you doing here?”

Lucifer _had been_ watching the sun come up from where he sat on the back of a couch. It was just shy of six in the morning. Lucifer would like to think the better question was what _Sam_ was doing letting himself in at six in the morning. Whether or not Sam liked it, Lucifer had every right to be here. 

So he does, in fact, parrot the question right back at Sam: “What are _you_ doing here?” 

Sam clenches his jaw. Lucifer's expecting their childish banter to continue, but then Sam answers, “Making breakfast,” and Lucifer isn't sure what to do with that, watching as the younger Winchester steps in, still dressed in loose-fitting sleep clothes, and bee-lining it for the kitchen. 

Lucifer is adamantly not going to tell Sam that he has a hellhound on the same couch he's perching on—Adaira sunken into the cushions morosely worried about the mental health of Dean Winchester. And that he, maybe, just wants to be around.

“I have business to discuss with Michael,” he lies, “and Adam is, typically, an early riser.”

“Surprised you didn't just wake him up,” Sam grumbles. 

“Why, Sammy, that would be _rude_.”

“And? What's it to you?” Sam fires back, pulling out a carton of eggs from the fridge, and then, more quietly, fishing out a pan from a cabinet. 

Lucifer shrugs him off. Adaira makes another low sound, too low for human ears, and Lucifer tenses. 

“Why are you always here, anyway?” Sam says as he sets into making his breakfast. If he wasn't trying to keep his voice down, his tone would have been more accusatory. 

Lucifer scowls anyway. The truth is too _much_. Too much for Lucifer, _way_ too much for Sam. Because your brother has more nightmares than restful sleep? Because he's too damn attached to your brother? Because it's here or Hell, really? 

“Familiarity,” he manages, which is too close to some kind of truth and that leaves a bad taste in Lucifer's mouth because Sam has done absolutely nothing regain any form of honesty from Lucifer. But a fight will wake up Dean and even if that might be better in the short term for Dean, the long term is... well. Waking up to the two of them fighting. 

“You have an entire globe,” Sam says.

“And the entire globe isn't _familiar_ ,” Lucifer hisses. How hard is that to understand? The globe doesn't matter to him outside of undoing its corruption so that maybe Lucifer's wings could feel a little less heavy all the time. 

“I don't know what your endgame is, but you shouldn't be here.”

If the room temperature changes it is _not Lucifer's fault_. No one can prove it.

“You don't get to make that call,” he says venomously. 

Sam's movements stutter. Something crosses his expression that Lucifer can't interpret. Huh. He used to know how this Winchester ticked. Strange. 

“Right,” Sam says—and that's—that's _acceptance_.

Lucifer must have heard him wrong. His surprise must show because Sam is wincing before he turns his back to Lucifer in favor of the stove. 

What _exactly_ just happened? Where's the fight? The defending his brother's virtue against Dean's wishes? Where's Sam Winchester Will Always Hate Lucifer? 

No, the hatred's still there, Lucifer realizes. It's in the muscles of Sam's back, locked in place, unable to relax for even a moment. It's just... acceptance is almost more of a foreign concept coming from Sam than anything else. 

He looks up as Adam shuffles out of his room, rubbing a hand over his head and not sparing Lucifer a glance. 

“I smelled food,” he mumbles, padding towards the kitchen.

Sam looks over and blinks. “It's just eggs,” he says.

“Still food,” Adam replies. 

Sam chuckles, slides the sunny-side up eggs onto a plate and sets it on the island, pushing it towards Adam and then once more trying to make his own breakfast.

“Sweet,” Adam says, slipping into the kitchen only to snag a fork and then thumping down on the couch across from Lucifer, raising a brow at him in inquiry. 

“I had to run some concerns past Michael,” Lucifer tells him.

“Yeah okay,” Adam says, tone disbelieving. He shoves a large bite of eggs into his mouth and observes Lucifer closely, with eyes very sharp for someone that just woke up, and Lucifer decides he doesn't need Michael dissecting every choice Lucifer has ever made in his life.

He almost chooses to just leave without an explanation—say _screw it_ and just go, but Adaira makes another sound and Adam is freezing, _definitely_ awake in that instant, and then that blend of Adam-Michael is before him and Lucifer hates it. 

They wouldn't dare question Adaira, not with Sam present. But there's a burning judgment there that Lucifer doesn't deserve and the lies he had at the ready to get him through this situation slip out of reach. He just wants to tell Adaira to look in on Dean so that _one_ of them can, but then she'll want to _do_ something, crossing an unspoken line, so the couch is the best that she can do. 

So what. Adam-Michael don't have to understand it.

“'Concerns?'” Sam asks. “Is there something wrong with Heaven?”

And it shouldn't be such a lifeline but Lucifer's mind leaps out to it. Sam has no idea he even gave Lucifer this boon. “Not wrong, exactly,” Lucifer says. “The problem is, and always has been, Hell. For every one soul sent to Heaven, fifty went to Hell. Of those fifty, only ten were _meant_ for it.”

“We know that,” Adam mutters under his breath. 

Lucifer ignores him and focuses on Sam. Because _Sam_ doesn't know this and maybe he can use it as enough of a distraction. 

“Even with the time differential, Hell is still too top-heavy comparatively.” 

Sam snorts. He turns with a plateful of his own eggs and remains in the kitchen to eat. “Isn't that good for you?” Sam accuses. 

“No,” Lucifer answers, “because I need balance same as everyone else. That's what you don't seem to understand, Sam: it's no longer a competition of which realm is more powerful. The planet can't be maintained if both realms aren't equal.”

Sam frowns. 

“So where's the additional concern?” Adam-Michael asks, testing. 

“We're not moving with enough efficiency,” Lucifer shoots back, and he's found his course again, “we _have_ Castiel now, we should be making better use of him.”

“Castiel can barely handle Heaven in either of our presence,” they argue. “He isn't going to help in Hell. What, did you think _we_ would be able to convince him?”

“You'd have better luck of the two of us,” Lucifer says, sounding irritable. He hadn't come here for this conversation, but it had been rolling around in his head ever since Michael started helping him.

“Well, we won't. It's preferable that Castiel continue to act as a counterbalance to Ruth and continue his flights.”

Lucifer throws his head back. Adam makes Lucifer like Michael more, sure, but when they're like _this_... Eugh. He looks over towards Sam, who had been watching them with a complicated expression. “You'd want to convince Castiel, wouldn't you, Sammy? It'd be in your best interests, right? You want us to be _babysat_ at all times, _right_?”

Adam shakes his head. 

“Well,” Sam says, “that would be... ideal, but I think he'll still refuse.”

“Useless, the lot of you.” Lucifer sighs. He thinks Dean could make Castiel do it. Only toys with the idea for a moment, while he looks down at Adaira's relaxed posture. It's the first time she's calmed in over an hour. A second sigh. He won't put Dean in that situation. “More for the 'soul accountants' then,” he grouses.

“Soul accountants?” Sam repeats. 

“Calling them demons is a travesty. It's a mockery to the name.” He chuckles. “I know you won't believe me, Sam, but you'd probably like the current version of Hell.”

“Yeah, forget that,” Sam snaps. “Adam, I'm stealing your shower before Dean gets up.”

“Like Dean's going to be up anytime soon,” Adam says, but he gives Sam a wave. 

Dean had _better_ not be up anytime soon because that might mean he'd get some real rest, Lucifer thinks.

Their alignment seems to finally reorient and Lucifer thinks he's left with Michael. That might not be the better option.

“Everything okay?” Michael asks him.

Lucifer scoffs and looks out towards the windows. “I don't need to explain myself,” he says.

“I wasn't asking you to,” Michael answers. 

Lucifer is bothered by how _that_ simple comment rankles him. Despite telling Sam that he knows Adam usually wakes up early, _this_ is still early even for Adam; usually when Lucifer... does this... he's long gone before Adam and Michael are aware. … He assumes, anyway. 

“You just seem more tense than usual.”

“Sam Winchester will do that to a guy.”

“I suppose,” Michael allows. 

“I still think we should enlist Castiel,” Lucifer says, before taking flight and leaving the relaxed Adaira behind.

He's absolutely not running away.


	89. 89

**89**

Wednesday, April 14, 2320

Sam's been looking at Dean funny since he woke up yesterday sometime around one in the afternoon. He'd woken to Garth texting him about Jim's pack having doubled in size after they had taken to roaming from home. 

Dean hadn't thought Sam was judging him for how late he slept in, and he finally came out with what was bothering him on their way to Howl at the Moon.

“Lucifer was talking about the balance between Heaven and Hell.”

“Oh jeez, how'd you get on that discussion? It's all balance _this_ and balance _that_ , sorry man.”

“He was in the living room yesterday morning.”

_Ah_ , it wasn't the topic that bothered Sam, it was the who-when-where. And by the sound of his voice he _also_ expected Dean to be disturbed by that.

Dean just shrugs. “Yeah he just does that sometimes. I shoulda warned you, sorry.” It isn't exactly the best apology but Dean just really hadn't thought about it. He tries to think what he could say to make it easier for Sam to come to terms with. There isn't a whole lot of options though. “He was laid up for like three weeks in December because Apocalypse Michael fucked his wing up when he went back in time to try and kill him, so he's sorta used to being around.”

Sam stops walking and turns to face Dean. 

So maybe that had been the wrong option. 

“So why did... why did he recover _there_?” Sam questions.

Because Dean asked him to likely wasn't the answer Sam needed to hear. 

“It was easiest on Michael,” Dean replies. “Healing takes a lot out of him.”

“Dean... I'm not really... comfortable with...” Sam trails off.

“Well you don't live on my side of the hall,” Dean says, and continues walking.

Needless to say, Dean naps through the Circle meeting, and it's the first time that Sam lets him without needling him. 

Sam's taken over the brunt of the meetings but Dean still goes out of habit, because really, he only knows the days of the week by ticking off Circle meetings. He thinks he'll lose all sense without it. 

The naps had kind of been his usual ever since he elected Sam to go as well. He'd camp at an out-of-the-way table with his back to the wall and pillow his head on his arms and power nap. Sam thought he was insane the first time—that Dean would _willingly_ make himself defenseless in a room of monsters. 

It was a reasonable worry. Sam didn't know Adaira would destroy anyone that tried anything. And if it wasn't Adaira, Hava was probably the single-fastest person in the bar, Morris maybe a close second.

Sam's mind seemed to shutdown somewhere during the first explanation, when he mentioned both Hava and Morris. Dean only made it worse by telling Sam it was easier for him to sleep here because all the noise kept his mind distracted. It was the most insight Dean had given his brother about his mental state and Sam's alarm in overdrive is one of the reasons Dean never tells him anything. 

If Sam wasn't pressing him about it this time, Dean may've stabbed into a nerve that was going to take them longer to recover from.


	90. 90

**90**

Thursday, April 22, 2320

“It's... it's new,” the clerk tells Dean, handing off the thinly-bound journal and she lets Dean pay and doesn't falter too much when he leaves, checking his phone with an odd message from Ligthart asking if he's alright today. Dean keeps staring at it as he walks, phone propped on the face of the journal as he tries to figure out a response that isn't a long line of question marks. 

The meeting was fine the day before, unless he missed something more subtle. Maybe something happened, just Ligthart once again taking care of a situation without ever telling Dean. Maybe it's closer to home this time. 

Maybe Dean should pay more attention than staring at his screen, then. 

He shoots off a quick _yeah, all good_ response and closes the messages, goes to shut off the screen, and freezes, eyes lingering on the clock minutes turning over and zeroing in on the date, his subconscious a roar of laughter, thunderous and taunting. 

Dean never quite knew the date everyone woke up, not for himself. He'd heard the date during a Circle meeting, never registering it.

But staring at the white-text date on his phone drills deep through his mind and lodges a weight that he doesn't think he'll ever get back out, and the pounding against his skull doesn't go away. 

He loses his grip on the journal and it falls to the sidewalk, his phone bouncing and clattering with it. 

It's been a year. 

He's been awake for a _year_. 

Michael's been gone _for a year_.

What does Dean have to show for it? 

He's passed off the one thing he was trying to stay active in to his brother. Humanity still can't stand him, hardly acknowledges him, and while he does prefer his presence to share similarities with a ghost, it wasn't what they were trying for, was it? Hell, even the one regular human he sees never looks him in the eye. 

No one's sure what to _do_ with him. Few people will _humor_ him, call him Dean, but most believe their Lord had a mental break and look to the familiarity of monsters for clarity, and now even safety. Dean's the wolf in sheep's clothing. Will always be the wolf.

Keep your head down low, Dean. Don't talk to anyone you don't know, Dean. You don't get a normal life, Dean. 

“I'm sorry, you dropped this,” and it isn't the same woman that Dean stabbed a year ago but it still haunts him and there's a song drowning his thoughts, his voice, his response, and he loses any restraint over the power, the uncontrollable light ripping from him, knocking her to the ground, burning into a shop wall and cracking a lamppost. 

Dean jerks away, pulling it back into him as quick as blinking, but it's too late. The woman's staring at him with dread, burns from her hands to her elbows, the quivered whisper of _'Lord Michael'_ on her lips and Dean is watching a year of work come crashing down around him because of one slip. 

“I'm not—” he cries as she continues away from him. “I'm sorry, I'm not him, please. _Please_.”

She doesn't hear him. “Please don't kill me,” she's saying.

Dean runs. 

He cuts around a corner, past the parting crowds, and sweeps down a Dead End side street, turning in a loop, hands locked behind his neck and his mind races and _what does he do_. How many people is she going to tell? It isn't like the burns and the damage to the street are easy to ignore—he's lucky no one else was close enough to him.

He screams and punches the wall until his knuckles are bleeding and he yells, “ _Goddammit_ , Chuck, why'd you have to let any of this get this far!” 

Everything is going to go back to square one. _Everything_! 

Hands grab his shoulders and spin him around and the _moment_ Dean recognizes Lucifer he thrusts the unruly force that got him _into_ this mess, wielding it flawlessly, driving Lucifer into the opposite wall and sure, _sure_ , now Dean can control it. He holds Lucifer in place, ice crystallizing around the devil as Dean seethes. 

“What the _fuck_?” Dean demands. “You were supposed to take this from me! You should have never fucking let me keep it—do you have _any_ idea what I've _done_?!” 

“Yes,” Lucifer answers in a rush, “why do you think I'm _here_?”

“Laugh at how Dean Winchester fucks it all up _again_?” Dean replies. “To rub it in my face?” 

“You don't believe that,” Lucifer says. 

Dean lowers his arm abruptly and Lucifer drops back down as the ice melts.

“Adaira called me,” Lucifer tells him. “I healed the woman and erased her memory, and a few others that were nearby.”

“I need you to take this from me,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around himself, shivering. “I don't know why I ever thought I'd have a handle on it.”

“Dean, I can't.”

“What?” Dean laughs. “But you have to.”

“It will kill you if I take it now.”

Dean stares at him, unseeing. “No,” he says. Louder, he yells, “ _No_!”

Lucifer steps towards him, hands out in warding. 

“You said you were going to take it,” Dean accuses, holding very, very still.

Lucifer shakes his head once, keeping his voice quiet, “I never said that.” 

Dean lurches forward and the air _moves_ with him as Dean hisses, “You implied it, you bastard!” 

“Perhaps,” Lucifer agrees, not shying away from Dean's erratic movements, continuing to close the distance. “You have a fine-tuned handle on it right now, it seems.”

“Lot of good it does me. All it takes is one person getting away from me and I'm _Michael_ again. I'll always _be_ Michael,” he sputters.

“Our brothers would take issue with that.”

“They don't count.”

“ _Ouch_ , Dean.”

“They were in the Cage. Changed by circumstance, right? They would have become just like Apocalypse Michael. _I_ would become Apocalypse Michael. _We're_ the same.”

_'I know you. I_ am _you.'_

Two different sets of memories now, and Michael still makes sure Dean _knows_. 

Lucifer reaches to him and Dean lashes out, fighting, the energy trying to manifest as something cohesive around him but it melts again with his turbulent thoughts and Lucifer breaks through his defenses, grabbing a hold of Dean, too close, and Dean stops breathing.

“You are _not the same_ ,” Lucifer tells him fiercely. “I've had him torture me, get in my head, _kill my brother_. You're not him. Could you be? Yes, _we all_ could be— _I_ could be! You're letting this control you, but you're _stronger_ than that, Dean!” 

Dean shakes his head in denial.

Lucifer growls, “Jack's letter—what did he say to you?”

Dean looks stricken. “I... what?” His eyes drop. He mutters, “How do you know he said anything to me that mattered?”

“Because that's _all_ Jack would say,” Lucifer argues. “And he might just be the one person that you'd _listen_ to.”

Slowly, Dean reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a white square, and unfolds it. The paper's worn, like it's been folded and unfolded nearly a hundred times. Dean knows the words by heart, but he looks at them because he feels like _now_ they must have changed, just like his memories keep trying to do. 

He opens his mouth, but stops. The words blur together on the page. He hands it to Lucifer, who looks caught off-guard, but takes it, and reads over the letter. 

Dean's mind will lie to him about what the words say.

Lucifer won't. Dean's... sure of that.

After a moment, Lucifer hands the letter back, and if Lucifer's hand shakes a bit, Dean doesn't say anything. Dean refolds the letter and places it back into its pocket. 

“He wanted you to have that power, not Michael,” Lucifer says. “Michael would use it to bring people to their knees. You just want to heal. How's that make you the same as him?”

Dean says nothing. The only thing he could say is that Lucifer is right, and that feels like an acceptance about himself that he isn't ready to face. 

They look down to a quiet rumble, and Dean can't help the fondness at the odd sight of his journal and phone hanging suspended in the empty-appearing air. He reaches down and gingerly accepts the proffered items. “... Thanks, Adaira,” Dean murmurs. He breathes, and adds, glancing up, “Thank you, Lucifer.”


	91. 91

**91**

Thursday, April 22, 2320

“What am I supposed to do now?” Dean asks, tired. He glances between the two archangels, glad that Sam and Cas aren't in, and he thinks Lucifer had something to do with that. 

“When did it get this far along?” Michael won't look at them, head held up by one hand, his other skimming through the tablet. There's a tension to his shoulders. 

“I don't know,” Lucifer says to his brother. “I lost track of how much it grew.”

“Oh that's cute,” Michael drawls.

“Shut up,” Lucifer answers.

“Right, of course.” A moment, and then Michael's expression warps into a grin and he chuckles.

“What are you laughing about?” Lucifer grumbles.

“I _do_ always appreciate Adam's sense of humor,” Michael says. 

“Guys!” Dean interrupts sharply, and gestures at himself with both hands. “So it'll kill me if you take it, but is it gonna kill me if I _keep_ it?” 

“It's hardly the same as being possessed by an archangel,” Lucifer starts, “but I imagine your body will adapt as it continues to grow.”

“How will I even _know_ when it's done growing?”

Michael glances up. “You'll probably join the chain gang.”

“Oh, well that's fucking fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say Michael-Adam were looking at cat memes but there's still no internet.


	92. 92

**92**

Thursday, April 22, 2320

_“Why do we have to put up with them?”_ Adam asks. 

_“Because they both possess the same push-back mentality. If we 'bring it up' it won't go well. You can't 'make' Lucifer do anything; it will backfire. And as the one that tried to get Dean to be my vessel for a very long period of time... that also won't go well.”_

Adam groans and oozes over the table, sitting besides Michael. _“This is the absolute worse,”_ Adam grouses. 

_“You were the one that wanted to keep living here,”_ Michael tells him. _“I don't like this device.”_

_“It's a bigger screen than my phone. You've gotta appreciate that.”_ Teaching Michael technology has been an experience, Adam can safely say. He's been trying to get Michael to put all his Heaven/Hell notes somewhere because it saves paper and Castiel would be willing to also use the tablet. Lucifer less so, but everything with Lucifer has to be difficult. _“You like it here, too.”_

_“I would 'like' anywhere.”_

_“Aw, because I'd be there?”_ Adam jests sweetly. 

Michael looks over to him. _“Yes,”_ he answers simply. 

This angel. Adam buries his face in his arms. _“You're too much.”_

Michael hums in satisfaction. 

_“But really, it's been over a_ month _, Michael. We really can't say anything?”_

_“No. They'll sort themselves out eventually.”_

_“Ugh. They'd better.”_


	93. 93

**93**

Friday, April 23, 2320

“Dean, you can handle grocery shopping. I promise, it'll be fine.”

“Uh huh, Sammy,” Dean answers sarcastically, awareness on his phone as he texts with Benny. Sam's been talking to him again like normal, but Dean doesn't expect it to last long, so he can't help be a little cagey. He knows keeping his brother at arm's length isn't going to do _anything_ good for his own mental state, but it might be the best thing he can do for _Sam_.

>>Made it over to St. Louis. I wouldn't come out this way if I were you.  
>>that bad?  
>>I get the feeling they'd hang up Wanted posters for you.  
>>ouch  
>>It's contained though. They know the Kansas City ruling, they know about Lucifer and the prophet, they know about the God Plan. Think they'll only gank you if you show up, but they're not looking for trouble.  
>>what about all the towns in between?  
>>Seems if folks hate you, they go to St. Louis. Folks intrigued I guess, they go to Kansas City. Most just stay put. Go about their business. Smaller the town the weirder it is.  
>>what do you mean?  
>>Pretty equally split, monster-human, 50-50. Quiet. Calm. Settled.  
>>cool. you getting the blood you need?

“Dean. One trip. Just try it,” Sam says. 

“Lots of people, small spaces,” Dean says, not looking up, “nowhere for people to run if things go south.” But “go south” doesn't mean a whole lot to Sam. Dean very notably Did Not Tell Sam and Cas about what happened the day before, and he knows none of the others will say just how dangerous Dean is. This unchecked, volatile thing is your _brother_ , Sammy, how's that? 

He can't bring himself to tell Sam and he just hopes it won't one day result in Sam being the one burned in the streets and looking at Dean in horror—realizing, finally, that Dean's more monster than any of those he surrounds himself with. 

“ _Dean_.”

“I get grocery deliveries for a reason, Sam,” Dean answers. 

>>Weird being the only one with fangs that needs to eat. But it's been alright. Animal blood's not preferred, but it makes do. And there's a lot of wildlife out here.  
>>all overgrown?  
>>Between towns, you bet. Roadways are clear so someone's taking care of that, but otherwise... real jungle out there.  
>>sounds fun, don't go all wild on me, benny  
>>Reminds me of home.  
>>purgatory ain't your home, dude  
>>Feels that way sometimes.  
>>lemme buy you a house wherever you want and that can be your home  
>>Eh, I've found some interesting places that I didn't expect, but I'll let you know. Now, I got some work to do.  
>>take care, benny

Dean pockets his phone and finally looks up to meet Sam's disapproval. “What?” he says, defensive. “Benny's fine, by the way. Everyone in St. Louis hates me. Donno if they also fall into the Wants Me Dead category.”

“Dean...” 

Dean can't interpret Sam's tone and he doesn't try to analyze it. He doesn't want to know. 

“It doesn't really matter, Sam. I've accepted it. Here's comfortable enough.” 

Sam sighs. 

“Look, I'm not going grocery shopping with you,” Dean says, “but I'll go out for a meal or something. Or a store that doesn't have a maze of aisles. Open floor plan, y'know. I gotta give people something. I can't just turn a corner and walk into them and give someone a heart attack.” Give _himself_ a heart attack, too.

“Okay. Let's just... go for a walk and see what we find, alright?” Sam offers. “I can scope a place out before we go in.”

“Fine. Just... Sam, you really want to be seen with me? That sort of thing doesn't go away. Adam handles it only because I think he talks to Michael so it doesn't bother him. People will look at you differently.”

“Dean, people have looked at me differently my whole life. I'm used to it.”

“And you get to be 'normal' here. As close to normal as any of us can get. Why lose that?”

Sam steps in front of him and smiles, tentative. “Because you're my _brother_ , Dean. I wouldn't trade that for anything, sure as hell not being _normal_.” 

Dean wants to argue that Sam doesn't understand the weight of what he's about to do. He wants to argue that Sam will regret it. Going out at night together to the Circle meeting isn't the same thing as going out in broad daylight when everyone is going about their business. 

But a comment like that makes Dean want to work at letting Sam in, as hard as it's been for Dean. He knows Sam is _trying_ even though he'd understand if Sam had continued to tear into Dean for even daring to associate with Lucifer, and Michael on a more limited concern. He just makes his quick comments sometimes, nothing as aggressive as Dean would expect, and he always drops the topic when Dean makes a sign that he's had enough. 

So he doesn't fight Sam, and they head out.


	94. 94

**94**

Tuesday, April 27, 2320

Castiel is completely done with this. 

He will resolutely _avoid_ Hell. Just because Michael and Lucifer are doing some strange shared roles doesn't mean Castiel will have _anything_ to do with it. No. No way. 

That was the plan, anyway.

Except Castiel is currently _in Hell_ with hellhounds at his back and a gaggle of demons at his front, all trying to show Castiel how to work at the soul mass. 

Michael had told Castiel that Hell was worse than Heaven but this is still the most horrifying thing Castiel thinks he's seen. And Castiel had been to Hell under Crowley's reign and Crowley's... endless form of torture. Castiel remembers Hell when he raised Dean; he understood that darkness. 

This was just... was it wrong to feel this bad for the damned? 

He had told Sam he was going to take _one look_. Just to see. Just to be _certain_ Lucifer wasn't hiding any tricks and taking Michael down with him. Sam had replied saying Lucifer referred to his demons as “soul accountants” and now he could tell Sam he knew why. 

If Lucifer was hiding something he was doing a damn good job at it because as far as Castiel could tell the demons were engrossed with the soul mass and not much else. 

Castiel feels sick. He knows there's Light in there, somewhere, buried down and coiled about like taffy, hidden by mutated souls that had nothing to do with demons and all to do with how they ended up in Hell. 

If they've had a year at this and Lucifer's been relatively consistent with his work on Hell, they've had _one hundred and twenty years_ Hell Time to work at this soul mass. Just how many souls did Apocalypse Michael force to Hell? 

Castiel never understood the concept of a “knitting circle” but that's all he can think when he stares at the demons and no, he's not joining in, thank you, continue to go about your business without him. 

When he leaves Hell, he swears the demons are disappointed.


	95. 95

**95**

Wednesday, April 28, 2320

Dean always knew that he respected Hava for how she was always mindful to stay in his line of sight and not surprise him, but he didn't _really know_ until Arrel was popping up to his left, definitely in his blindspot. Probably on purpose, too. “Victory at last!” she crows, and Dean almost falls out of his chair.

“You know what!” he yells. “Fuck you!” It only gets some heads to turn his way. They're all amused except Sam, who looks like he's ready to charge across the room and stab someone; Dean quickly waves him off that it's fine. Arrel is an irritant. Nothing more.

He doesn't think she could be more delighted. 

“Now, now, that's no way to talk to someone that's just gotten your new Dean Winchester Reports in.”

“ _What_ —wait, I said not to call them that!”

She beams. 

Ugh.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says.

“Now we're even,” she announces, and he thinks he sees a brush of three tails crowning her form, but then he shakes his head and they're gone. 

“Yeah, okay. We're even.” 

And she bounds away. What the hell, Dean thinks.


	96. 96

**96**

Thursday, April 29, 2320

“Are you still dropping Ruth in different places?” Dean asks Lucifer. He's woken up early. Like before-eight-in-the-morning early. There are some dishes drying which means Sam's already made his breakfast and is already out for the day. Adam might still be sleeping, otherwise he's also out and about. 

Lucifer frowns at Dean, slowly coming out of his meditative state. Dean told Sam that he knew Lucifer was sometimes around in the early mornings, but Dean never outright caught him on it. Dean hates mornings. 

“... Yes,” Lucifer answers at last, despite how he looks like he wants to say more. 

“Could you... bring me along with her?”

The pause is longer this time. “Why?”

“I got my reports from Arrel, so I can start handing those off.”

“I can take those with Ruth. There's no reason for you to be present.”

Dean tenses, but he should have expected the response. “Look, maybe I just want to get _out_. Have others see _me_. Maybe it'll... help. I haven't _done_ anything, Lucifer.” He sighs. 

“You could have led with that,” Lucifer says. “Fine. But I'm going with you.”

“Why?” Dean echoes. 

Lucifer looks at him flatly. “You're a natural trouble magnet who has barely left Missouri. And you want me to leave you with the _prophet_?”

That's... “Am I putting her in more danger?”

“Not 'more.' I trust her to be safe enough on _her own_.”

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling and groans loudly. “... Does she have a hellhound on her, too?”

Lucifer is silent for a moment before, “I don't have enough power to bring people back,” he responds evenly, “so I need them to stay alive.”

“You _don't_ need me anymore,” Dean says, with an offbeat cheer and amusement. 

Lucifer's expression sours and Dean files it away to examine when he has better mental fortitude. “I'm due to pick Ruth up in two days,” is all Lucifer says. 

“Where are we going?” Dean asks with a grin. “What weather should I pack for, huh?”


	97. 97

**97**

Thursday, April 29, 2320

Lucifer is going to kill Dean Winchester.

He'd thought he had the motivation to do so in the literal past, but it hadn't been enough, and it was nothing compared to how much he _desperately_ needed to wring his neck now. 

It's getting to be too much. He was fighting a losing battle _before_ when Dean was on every single entity's kill list and constantly gunning for him, and as the Righteous Man, Lucifer couldn't afford to just _let_ someone snuff the Winchester's life out. 

But now Lucifer _cares_ and it seemed damn near impossible, especially after Dean admitted, _finally_ , to Lucifer's face how infrequent he cared about staying alive. It isn't always there, he thinks. He knows Dean hides it more after getting Sam and Castiel back, but it isn't hard to spot when Lucifer's gotten so used to seeing it.

It was Lucifer's own mistake leaving him for nearly a month. He had his own inner conflict to deal with but he _knew_ better than most how Christmas would continue to destroy Dean, remembers the soul-bleeding, unrecognizable shape laid out on the penthouse floor after Lucifer's resurrection. He knew Dean was still alive. Could feel that distant thrum among the universe, faint as it had become. Knew Adaira would have reacted if anything was wrong to the point of no return.

He didn't need Adam's _push_ to try and pull at Dean; he would have done it anyway. He doesn't know how he would have reacted if he didn't succeed in getting Dean to climb back out of his shell.

And _now_ he thinks the Winchester is _trying_ to test him. After already handing over more trust to Lucifer than the devil thinks he should be allowed. It makes him want to turn to Sam and go _I didn't ask for any of this to happen, only YOU can make it go back to normal_. Normal as the antagonism, normal as the fights, the threats.

(He doesn't want normal. By his Father _he doesn't want it_ , but any changed relationship they have is bound to fall apart and it's well-past too late for Lucifer to stop a train wreck. 

Maybe he can brace himself.)


	98. 98

**98**

Friday, April 30, 2320

“I'm sorry, Dean, you're doing _what_?” Sam shouts. Dean has the most shit-eating grin on his face that Sam thinks he's seen since getting to the future, and he wants to punch his brother. 

“It's fine, Sammy.”

Sam looks to Castiel standing by the unlit fire, and then to where Michael (or Adam, he's not really sure) is reading a tome at the kitchen table. _Someone_ has to have heard the same words he just did and be feeling the same matching apprehension! 

“Dean! It's really not! You...” Sam presses a hand to his mouth, mind racing. He slows his words, “You want to go on a-a world tour with Lucifer.”

“And Ruth,” Dean says. “Let me tell you: she's gonna hate it. That woman wants me dead, I swear.” 

Ruth is the _last one_ that Sam is worried about. With Dean in Kansas City, Sam can still keep an eye on him, and some of the coming-and-goings of the devil. But _leaving_? To God knows where? That's not—that's not _okay_.

“I got my completed reports back from Arrel. We're going to hand them out around the Circles.”

“Arrel?” Sam repeats, frowning. “That's a... kitsune, right?”

“She is, yes,” Dean corrects. “She owed me a favor or something and helped me out.”

Sam stares at his brother. “Dean. A kitsune owed you a favor.”

Dean frowns. “Yeah?”

He drops his head back and closes his eyes. “Okay. You know what. That's cool.” Sam would wonder why his brother is still alive, but then he knows the answer to that question is _Lucifer_ , and that just brings them back to the problem at hand. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“Donno. Couple weeks, maybe? I'll stay in touch if you're so worried. Maybe pick up some souvenirs, eh?” He waggles his eyebrows at Castiel.

(Sam is extremely unhappy that Cas isn't helping him at all in this conversation, and seems to be dead set on staying out of it.)

“Dean, I don't want souvenirs, I wants Lucifer _not to kill you_!”

“He'll be fine,” Michael-or-Adam says. 

They keep saying things like that but Sam is going to keep having trouble believing them. 

“Sammy, I hate to break it to you, but I don't need your permission to go. I'm just giving you guys the courtesy of telling you.”

Sam knows that, deep down. He knows he can't stop his brother from doing anything. Dean's been on his own too long and has had too many wounds left behind by Apocalypse Michael to even give Sam the benefit of the doubt. He's been trying to do better by his brother, try to be open, available, non-judgmental.

But it's hard when he comes out and says _'Lucifer and I are going on a world tour'_ like it's a perfectly-normal statement. Dean's idea of “normal” is terrible and on any given day Sam wants to just grab a hold of him and beg his brother to _talk_ to him, but he knows that never will work. He just wishes Dean wouldn't brush him off, that he'd give Sam a chance. 

Sam saw him when they went out during the day and there was something _skittish_ about the way Dean moved in public, holding himself closed off, both blocking out the world and being completely aware of his surroundings like it would kill him if he wasn't. 

And Dean wants to do that to himself across the world? With Lucifer and the prophet and act like he's perfectly comfortable with it, when Sam had to almost beg Dean to walk outside with him? 

Sam glances to Castiel and he can see the burn in his eyes, the desire to fight, but holding back. Sam has to do the same. 

He draws in an uneasy breath. “Yeah, Dean, please stay in touch. Okay? I just want to know you're safe.”

Dean gives him a thumbs up. “Good thing we don't have to deal with international phone costs.”

Because that would be Dean's only concern, Sam thinks. He puts a hand to his head and hopes the check-ins he gets from Dean aren't going to be everything blowing up in their faces.


	99. 99

**99**

Saturday, May 1, 2320

“You know there's a guard dog on you,” Dean tells Ruth the very first time he sees her again.

Lucifer glares at him. Dean ignores him. 

“No, I had no idea,” she deadpans. “Didn't figure it out at all when it tore one of my attackers' throats out.”

“You knew?” Lucifer asks.

“So much for non-interference,” Dean mutters.

“ _Yours_ is on non-interference,” Lucifer argues. 

“I knew,” Ruth confirms. 

“You're taking this much better than he did.”

Dean holds out his arms. “I was dragged to Hell by hellhounds, thank you very much. I think I had a good reason for my _very sane_ reaction.”

“And she hasn't done you wrong,” Lucifer defends. 

“No,” Dean says with a drawn-out sigh, “she hasn't. And I take her 'service' very seriously. Thank you, Adaira,” he tells some random empty space. 

Lucifer preens like Dean's complemented him instead of his dog and Dean doesn't even cause a fuss. 

Two hellhounds and an archangel are enough protection. 

Still... 

“Do you feel safe?” Dean asks her. They're in Germany and she's been nervous the whole while. She thrust a stack of the reports to one of the leaders and then tucked herself in a corner. “Usually, anyway. When you travel like this. When Lucifer just dumps you off places.”

“I do,” she answers. “I do, really. The members of each Circle act as sentinels. They protect me, they protect everyone else.”

He frowns. “From what?”

She stares at him, trying to gauge if he's serious, he thinks. “From other monsters,” she answers. 

Lucifer once said Dean was in a bubble. He wonders how true that was. Kansas City had seemed in relative harmony when it came to everyone other than Dean. It... evidently wasn't the same everywhere else. No wonder Lucifer was more hesitant to throw Dean into the mix with the prophet. 

She had referred to them as sentinels; but, Dean thinks, _they_ had taken up the role of _Hunter_. 

“Oh,” he finally answers. “Are a lot of cities like that? Where monsters are at odds with each other?”

She shrugs. “Maybe a fourth of them. It's been getting better. I'm on my... third round for many of them? None of them have backtracked.” 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Dean asks Lucifer, after Ruth's gone to sleep and Dean finds him balanced on a railing of the short outdoor balcony.

“Hm?”

“You said monsters had a unanimous agreement to protect humanity,” Dean says. “But they don't.”

“Comparatively to what it was,” Lucifer reasons, “it's unanimous.” 

“That's not what 'unanimous' means, asshole,” Dean argues, but there's no bite to his voice. 

“They were, in the beginning,” Lucifer tells him, glancing. “Things shifted, here and there. What would knowing have changed?”

“I don't know,” Dean says. 

“You never asked,” Lucifer continues. “About the state of the world.”

“Would you have told me?”

Lucifer thinks on that, head swaying side to side. “It depends when you asked me.”

That makes far too much sense to Dean, unfortunately. Somewhere around being walloped by those first Leviathans, Dean stopped lying to Lucifer about most things; the reverse seemed true, though Dean could never prove it. Fuck, he told Dean just how many demons he created when he had no _reason_ to.

“You should sleep.”

“Screw that,” Dean says. “You know the last time I saw _stars_? Michael could've done something about Kansas City's light pollution.” He folds his arms besides where Lucifer sits and does stare up at the sky. Hell. _He_ doesn't know the last time he's seen the stars. He doesn't think he even recognizes them now.

“They've changed,” Lucifer says, as though in answer to Dean's thoughts. 

“Because of Michael?” Dean asks.

“No. Because of...” Lucifer pauses. “The way of things.”

“So there's one universal Law he didn't change?” 

Dean can just barely see Lucifer's brief grin in the dark. 

“Some things simply change all on their own,” he answers.


	100. 100

**100**

Monday, May 3, 2320

Dean kneels down alongside a shapeshifter. “Hey, I got you, you're fine,” he says, his words tumbling out of him as he tries to keep track of his surroundings. He pulls the melody around him like a conductor and the touch to the shapeshifter's shoulder is nowhere near as daunting as any of the times he's healed the archangels. Dean feels a mirrored stab wound along his left leg, and a bite at his hip, but the pain is easy to push through as he heals the injuries. 

He'd just texted Sam not more than an hour ago saying that they'd landed safely in Saint Petersburg, Russia. 

“Adaira?” he calls as he helps the shapeshifter back to their feet. He can see the splashes of where her paws step through puddles of runoff, stalking a perimeter behind them. “Adaira, we gotta move again. Hey, bud, you ready?”

“Yes,” they say, shaking themselves. 

“Okay, let's go.”

Since leaving Missouri, their trio had been hitting 15-17 Circles _per day_ ; a quick hello to a leader and a hand-off of reports. It wasn't enough to spread out to the full population of an area, there wasn't any way they could carry that many, but it was enough to get by and allow the global Circles themselves to make copies from what they had and continue distribution. They would stop in the city they ended the night in and allow for rest. 

Dean had lamented how much he _hated_ flying. 

Lucifer had berated him for this _being Dean's idea_.

Now, Dean had no idea where Lucifer _was_. 

St. Petersburg's Circle was one of the largest that Dean had seen. They had adopted the Hermitage as their meeting space, which had been the second-largest museum in the world in its prime, and still had maintained some of its former glory. Apocalypse Michael had a selective soft spot for art, Dean thinks. _New_ art from the era he ruled wouldn't be allowed, but if it had been from _before_ then it could remain. 

The monsters in this city had a similar view; they protected the museum like it was their heart. 

Dean remembers chatting with two of the leaders sometime after the meeting. He remembers the air roasting. He remembers looking away to the self-immolation of a figure and white flames overtake the body of another leader, the scream ricocheting through the foyer. He remembers the mirage of orange-green flames knock away other members with a concussive beat of wings and then eyes land on not Dean, but the two Circle leaders he was with. 

Fuck.

“We gotta go!” he yelled, tugging at them and huffing it for an exit, no idea where Ruth or Lucifer was, but having to put them out of his mind for the immediate problem.

It wasn't the firebug that came after them. The way they moved, their eyes, their teeth—it had been a vetala pair that hunted them.

The djinn they were with successfully tapped one of the vetala out before they were killed by the partner. 

“We have to go back,” the shapeshifter grumbles, accent blurring together the words. 

“Not until we kill that other one,” Dean argues. “Maybe you haven't _noticed_ , but I think they're gunning for the leaders. What did y'all do to piss these guys off?”

“Besides the obvious?”

Dean supposes other monsters could've expected this whole “protect humanity” thing to lose steam and when it didn't after a year, well, it was time to take matters into their own hands. 

“I guess that could be enough,” Dean agrees. “Well, I got a silver blade on me—no offense.”

Not that he's sure how much use it'll be against a grace-enhanced vetala, but he'll try anything. 

“None taken. Stupid not to have it.” 

“How d'ya feel about acting as bait?”

They grin. “The partner is out of commission. I bet I can take them.”

“Yeah, okay, champ, that was only a quick heal. Let's not go full throttle. Just keep them occupied and I'll shank them, alright?” 

Which is how they end up with a, frankly obvious, trap. But the remaining vetala is fury-fueled and hurting from their partner succumbing to a slow death. Dean watches the tussle from darkness, trying to track the fast movements of two monsters in motion.

He goes in when the shapeshifter is against a wall, straining away from teeth, and gets the vetala right through the back, twisting hard and pulling free. They step away as the body falls limp and the skin starts to shrivel in.

“That's nasty,” the shapeshifter says.

“I've seen what your shed flesh looks like,” Dean says, looking over his blade with a freakish glee that it was enough, “you're really not one to talk.” 

They actually have the nerve to look offended by that. Jeez. They make it back to the Hermitage without trouble, but keep their eyes peeled. The moment Dean spots Ruth, he heads right for her. She's seated on a bench, someone standing on a set of stairs not far from her.

“Ruth?” Dean kneels in front of her, hands gesturing helplessly at the blood dabbing her front. “You okay? What happened? Where the hell's Lucifer?” The foyer looks a _whole lot_ worse than how Dean left it. 

“He got hit by a-a,” she pauses, head twisting like she's listening for the words to come to her, “Banishing Spell,” she finishes.

“ _What_?” he demands. “What could've known how...”

“He said it was a phoenix,” she says, dazed. 

Dean remembers the fiery being. He was hoping it had been a dragon, honestly. He sucks in a breath. “That's... that's fine,” Dean says. 

“Your reassurance is astounding.”

“No, but. It is. If they banished Lucifer then they can't just... i-incinerate an archangel. So that's good.” He's still trying to figure out what to do with his hands. He looks up at her. “Can I touch you? So I can heal you.”

“... Yes.”

He nods and stands, reaching out to her, and then draws back just as fast, his fingertips red-hot in only his mind. “Ah...” he hisses. “Burns?” he asks.

She nods. “I got hit by some of the edges before Conall intercepted the rest.” 

“Conall?” 

“That's what he said the hellhound was named,” she explains.

He nods. Right. Awesome. Hellhounds can shield phoenix fire. That's way too good to know. He shakes himself. Ice as a balm, he thinks. He lays his hand on her arm once more. 

“Do you know where the phoenix went?”

“No. She killed the Circle leaders after she banished Lucifer and then disappeared.”

Dean immediately finds the shapeshifter. “Okay. Then she's going to come back since I think that fella is the last leader left.”

“Demyan.”

“What?”

“His name is Demyan.”

“Oh.” Dean hadn't asked. They meet so many leaders in a day that he can't keep track of them. Now nine of them in this one group were dead, and he didn't know any of them. “The phoenix have a name?” he wonders. Vengeance and all that.

“Arabelle Wren.” 

Dean nods. He turns away from her and calls out, “Yo! Someone find some iron! That'll at least slow the pyrophile down!” 

“What then?” Ruth asks. “Can you kill her?”

“Erm. Probably not,” Dean admits, looking back as several Circle members run off. Demyan stays away on his own, but directing orders from a distance; Dean realizes with a shock that the leader doesn't want anyone to die for him. “I only know of one thing that can kill them and we definitely don't have that. I'm hoping if we can hold her down, Lucifer can do something. If he gets back.” 

If he gets back in _time_. Dean might have to throw a prayer out to Michael.

Ruth's interest shifts and Dean grins away his nerves as someone runs back into the foyer with an armful of iron chains. 

“Anyone good with a lasso?” 

“We're going to die,” Ruth states. 

“Naaaah. She doesn't want us, she just wants Demyan. Just cluster over with the other members and it'll be fine.”

Ten minutes later, Dean takes it back. The only thing between Demyan and Wren is presumably Dean, his percussive song, and a singular hellhound. He's cobbled something of a shield together using that song, but it's flimsy _at best_ and he's already made matters worse by making some shitty comment about killing Wren's snake assassins. 

Typical Dean Winchester, he thinks.

And then iron chains are slinging around Wren's chest and ensnaring her to the floor. Dean sees that same mirage of wings as she wheels, shrieking as her flesh burns away, revealing more smoldering feathers. Several Circle members anchor the chains, huddled together, hanging on like their lives depended on it.

Wren may not have intended to kill them before, but now they were on her shit list. 

She ignites the floor around her, branding heat washing over the room and instantly stifling Dean's shield and the persistent medley in his mind stutters to a stop, the phoenix fire unbearable. She overwhelms two of the members holding her chains and Demyan breaks away from Dean's protection to take over even as Dean yells to him about being reckless.

But Dean understands having something against other people fighting your battles. It'll make Demyan a good solo leader, Dean thinks, if he survives this. 

He meets Ruth's suddenly sparkling gaze across the way before she turns her focus to an empty part of the room and seconds later Lucifer is back, looking as though he's been driven through miles of concrete, his vessel torn and peeling in parts—almost as when they had first met him. 

“ _Lucifer_!” Dean yells. Lucifer's head swivels to find him and Dean sees his open relief.

“I don't like you,” Lucifer tells the writhing phoenix. “Normally I'd have some respect for you, but that really hurt.” 

Dean worries for Lucifer's wing with how the archangel is holding himself. He can't do anything for it in this situation. 

He sees Lucifer unsheathe his golden blade with some surprise. Go big or go home, Dean supposes. Wren must sense the threat, because the floor beneath her contorts with her heat, rippling away from her. Wings, now physical, sweep and strike out her jailers. She uses the distraction to glide free of the iron, wings settling over her and returning to the safety of her human form. 

Dean, ever the hypocrite, runs for her. She ignores him completely in favor of Lucifer—why would anyone pay a human any mind over an archangel?—and calls up the tolling tone of the still-stilted song, shifting the icelight shield into a _cage_ , clamping it over top her. He can only secure it for seconds at most, but it's enough time for Lucifer to close the distance and slip his blade between the shimmering bars and make purchase through Wren's heart. 

Dean collapses from overexertion and his shield drops, fire climbing over Wren head to toe and she burns alive under the celestial force, before rupturing into ash. Demyan is at Dean's side in an instant, and Ruth is standing somewhere between him and Lucifer looking uncertain. 

Dean groans, looking up at Demyan. “Got a place we can stay the night? Damn, I'm tired.”

“Everyone said you were insane,” Demyan tells him, “but I didn't believe them.”

“Shame on you,” Dean says.

Later, Lucifer's sprawled out on his back in the room they were given, little care about Ruth and Dean staring down at him. “A phoenix,” he complains.

“For once this isn't my fault,” Dean says. “It had absolutely nothing to do with me.” 

“Or me,” Ruth says. 

“ _Yes_ , congratulations, you two were just collateral damage.”

“You too,” Dean says, nudging a foot at Lucifer's leg. 

Lucifer draws up his leg and kicks Dean in the knee.

“Ow! Son of a—!” Dean yells as he collapses. 

“There,” Lucifer says to Ruth. “You're welcome.”

Dean sits awkwardly on the floor, holding his knee and glaring from Lucifer to Ruth. “Oh, this is on you, is it?”

She shrugs. “I don't have the ability to land a hit on you.”

“If you asked to punch me, I would have let you.”

“That's what I said,” Lucifer replies.

“Maybe I still will,” Ruth says.

“Come on, you already got Lucifer to kick me. I need my beauty rest.” 

“You're lucky that of the two of us, you're still standing,” Lucifer says. “Well, you were standing, anyway.”

Dean huffs. “It worked, didn't it? And I didn't pass out, so I call that a win.”

“You had a chance of passing out?” Ruth asks him.

“I mean,” Dean waves a hand dismissively, “it was either that or become ash. So really, we were limited with our options.” 

“Demyan was right,” she says, “you _are_ insane.”

“You know what, I'm going to bed. I'll slap a band-aid on you in the morning, Lucifer.” Dean thinks he can handle that much. 

“Sure,” Lucifer bemoans, “I'll just lay here, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hermitage Museum](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermitage_Museum)


	101. 101

**101**

Wednesday, May 5, 2320

“Do you want to know a secret?” Ruth asks him. They're seated in a booth in the back of the Circle meeting. Tokyo is their last stop of the day this time. The chatter of the meeting washes over Dean, language he can't pick up, though he thinks Ruth can follow some. 

No phoenixes—as of yet, anyway.

“Probably not,” Dean reasons.

She nods in agreement. 

“You still gonna tell me?” Dean asks.

“I think you should know,” she says, and there's a heavy grief to her voice. 

“Makes me want to know even less.” When she doesn't speak, he asks, “Does Lucifer know it?”

“No,” she says. “But Michael knew.”

Dean stiffens.

“It's the reason he kept killing prophets. My... brethren, I suppose, all slaughtered because of his fear.” She leans forward, hands twisting together, and looks up at him. “Every time one awoke, the same first words were written, the same prophecy.”

Dean can no longer hear their surroundings. He's hyper-focused on her voice. 

“What was the prophecy?” Dean whispers. 

“'Thy aberrant soldier must taketh the blade once more.' I don't know if they are words of your God, or if Fate themselves usurped the prophet link.”

“Why would Michael kill the prophets if they just spoke of him being in power?”

“Because he thought it meant that he would _lose_ power. But someone _higher_ must have always known that there would be time travel involved. To be sure the timeline wouldn't be rewritten.”

He loses track of the rest of her words. He just keeps hearing and seeing the prophecy, hundreds of voices, hundreds of handwriting. 

Dean almost punches Lucifer with the full force of his song when Lucifer places a hand on his shoulder. Lucifer jerks away, looking startled. 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles. “I... need some air.” He scrambles to his feet and makes for the door.

He hears Lucifer ask Ruth, “What was that about?” as he bolts outside. 

It was one thing hearing Lucifer talk about Fate having Dean, it was altogether different entirely to hear _hundreds of years_ of prophecy saying the same thing. That Dean in 2020 and Dean in 2319 couldn't have done shit to change their Fate. 

He's rewritten one prophecy in life; that must have been all he was allowed.

“Dean.”

“I'm fine, really,” Dean tells Lucifer. “Her and I, our personalities just tend to clash. That's all.”

Even if he thinks they've been getting along the more they're in each other's presence.

“Seemed like more than that.” 

Dean shakes his head. “It's really not; new places are sometimes hard on me,” he lies, and that—fuck. _Fuck_. He loops his arms behind his neck and sinks down to the ground to crouch, hearing Lucifer call out to him and ignoring him.

It's an easy lie; he could just keep it at that. He could argue, maybe, that it wasn't his secret to tell. It was _about_ him, but Ruth was the prophet. Her prophecy, her problem. 

(He thinks she never told Lucifer because it _was_ Dean's secret to tell.)

Lucifer kneels beside him and Dean keeps his eyes fixated to the pavement as he says, “It was bound up into prophecy. All that Fate bullshit you spouted about how I had to become Michael again. It was a prophecy.”

“... I see.”

“She said Michael killed all the prophets because they kept writing the same thing every time one of them woke up, and that time travel was equally wrapped in with all my Fate.”

“Dean...”

Dean thinks that's Lucifer pitying him, even if the logic part of his brain is telling him that he's fooling himself. 

“Just shut up,” Dean says anyway. “Whatever. I've barely ever had Free Will, right? God's in a box but I'm still just everyone's puppet. His, Michael's, Fate's—they're all the same, aren't they?” 

“Maybe,” Lucifer agrees. “I'd argue no one 'made' you make these reports though. And we've been to... mmm... nearly eighty-five Circles by now.” He raises a brow at Dean. “That's a notable achievement, under your own fuel.”

“How do I know I'm not still just playing to another prophecy?”

“I imagine she would have told you,” Lucifer says. “Dean, even if we were marching to someone else's tune—I don't think anyone predicted this.”

“The moment we started meddling in other worlds,” Dean mumbles, “we altered everything.” 

“For better or for worse.”

Dean's gaze snaps to him. “You think this is the _better_ end of things?”

Lucifer shrugs. “We'll never know, will we? Isn't _that_ how living is supposed to go?”

“What, you don't know?” Dean bites out before he can think about the words. 

“Lived in a Cage longer than out of one,” Lucifer answers, much more casually than the words should be.

Dean winces. “Right. Well, I don't know. My life's been all about survival, not living. Doubt there's anyone alive here that could give us that answer.”

“Self-discovery, then,” Lucifer reasons.

“That sounds terrible.”

Lucifer grins. “Oh, and that _does_ sound like what little I know about living.”


	102. 102

**102**

Monday, May 10, 2320

“Hi, guys,” Dean says to the ring of demons surrounding him, his hands up. Adaira bit one in half before the ring closed up again, and that quickly answered Dean's question about where the hellhound stood with demons. She also hasn't left him to find Lucifer, which is worrying that she thinks she might not be able to. 

He's really loved that he hasn't seen any demons out and about after that One Time. 

They're in Lagos, Nigeria, and it isn't their final stop of the night, but Dean considers it might be his. 

“I think I have a deal with your boss,” Dean continues, “your Dad? Creator? I don't know. But it's a whole Don't Kill Me thing, right?” Dean can't stop talking. Being a passenger to Angel Air after twelve flights thus far today isn't sitting well with him. He wanted to get some fresh air and both Lucifer and Ruth said that Lagos was one of the places he'd be safe. “I mean, if the hellhound says _no_ , I think that means something.” 

Demons don't equate to safety. 

“We weren't intending to kill you,” one says.

“Okay, then why'd my dog feel the need to kill your friend, huh?”

“A warning shot,” they reply. 

“They're dead. That's not a warning.”

“They're back in Hell,” they answer. 

And their temporary meatsuit is toast. Dammit, Adaira. 

“Okay. So. Not gonna kill me. What do you want, then?”

“Our father has been missing. We... tracked his location to here.”

Oh Sweet Heaven. Dean, finally, drops his hands. “You're fucking kidding me. And you think, what, I kidnapped him?”

“We're merely looking for answers,” another speaks. 

“He's on a business trip!” Dean shouts. “He'll be back soon! He's fine!” Relatively. “Holy shit, get a life!” Maybe not what he should tell demons, but Lucifer's only been gone for ten days—which, Dean supposes, is longer in Hell—this seems excessive. “I'll tell him you're looking for him. Just... go home! And don't let your vessels die!” 

Dean turns and they let him break their ring as he goes back into the building and weaves through the gathering until he finds Lucifer and Ruth, stopping besides them and glaring knives at Lucifer.

Lucifer stops his conversation with a rugaru. 

“You need to check in with Hell,” Dean states. 

Lucifer looks to the rugaru, “If you'll excuse me,” he says in dismissal. After she leaves, Lucifer faces Dean. “I'm sorry?”

“I just got cornered by seven demons that were _worried_ about your 'disappearance.'”

Lucifer looks shaken. “They did _what_?”

“They didn't intend to kill me,” Dean says; he maybe should have opened with that. “Or... anything else. I guess. Adaira murdered one which I'm a little pissed about because of the vessel.” 

Lucifer drops his head and mutters something, then glances back up. “Are they still...”

“Donno. I told them you'd be back soon and to go home. Did they listen? Unlikely.”

Lucifer moves past him.

“Demons?” Ruth asks. “It's hard for you to avoid trouble, isn't it?”

“Why am I getting blamed for something that's Lucifer's fault?”

She smiles, and it startles Dean. He thinks this world tour of theirs helped _their_ terrible (and understandable) relationship. All in all, with how many places they've gone, it's been an alright trip. And Dean hadn't been lying when he told the demons that Lucifer would be back soon: from their planning they only had a few days of travel left to hit everything they intended. 

He raises a brow when Lucifer returns. “So? Still skulking?”

“By the six confused humans standing around a dead body, wondering how they got there and who everyone else was, no,” Lucifer says. “Children,” he bemoans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did he do anything with the dead body? Ehhhh *shrug*


	103. 103

**103**

Wednesday, May 12, 2320

“Dean! You're back! How'd it go?”

“Still alive, Sammy.” Dean grins. “Ran into a phoenix that tried to take out an entire Circle. Healed a bunch of people. Learned more of how Apocalypse Michael was an ass. Got reports out.” Dean doesn't tell Sam about the demons.

“... Dean. You said you were _fine_ every time I talked to you.”

“I was! Every time I talked to you.” Dean laughs. “Yo, Adam,” Dean looks over to him, “in case it ever comes up, so Michael knows, phoenixes totally know angel Banishing Spells.”

Dean knows them well enough by now that the alarm in those eyes, the way they carry themselves, the strange tone of their voice—it's both of them that demands: “ _What_?”

“Yeah! You can imagine how thrilled Lucifer was.” 

“Is he alright?”

“I mean it definitely put him through the wringer.” He looks back to his brother's flabbergasted expression. “The phoenix was really the worst of it all, Sam.” Which is a bit of a lie. Dean thinks hearing about the prophecy was worse than any fight, but he isn't about to tell Sam that. “So, not bad, had a good time. You guys been busy? Holding down the fort?” 

Dean kind of thinks Sam might actually kill him. 

He gets a beer.


	104. 104

**104**

Thursday, May 13, 2320

“Lucifer. I owe you an apology.”

Lucifer snorts, and Michael can tell that he's not taking him seriously. “Oh?” Lucifer laughs. “What for?”

“For locking you in the Cage.”

Lucifer fumbles with the souls that he was handling. They slip from his grip and fade through reality and it takes both him and Michael lunging for them, hitting the floor of Heaven, to keep them from plummeting to Earth. Lucifer sags.

“What the _hell_ , Michael?” he demands as he sits up, checking the souls over for damage.

Michael would argue it was Lucifer's own fault for not paying attention, but even he didn't think Lucifer would react quite so intensely. Lucifer shakes his head and gets back to his feet, turning and ignoring Michael.

Michael stays seated and looks up at him. “Lucifer.”

“No,” Lucifer hisses. 

“ _Lucifer_.”

Lucifer spins on a heel and angrily gestures at him best he can while cradling souls. “ _No_ ,” he yells, louder. “Whatever _this_ is, I don't want any part of it.”

Michael shifts his focus to Adam planetside to see if he was listening to their conversation, but Adam seems to be allowing Michael his privacy, following a skinwalker on their patrol as he often does. Michael draws back and watches his brother. “Adam refuses to let Dean apologize, so I can see a bit where you're coming from.” 

“ _You_ don't even want to hear the Winchester's apology, so don't act like you're above us!” 

“That's not—” Michael sighs. “Lucifer. Adam and I were in Hell for somewhere around twenty-five millennia. We had each other. You were alone for nearly _seven-hundred and twenty_. _I_ did that to you.”

Lucifer shoves the souls that he'd almost perfected back into the Light before he tears them to shreds by mistake, pacing down the hall, restless. “It wasn't that long,” he says dismissively.

“It was,” Michael whispers, “I counted each passing century.”

Lucifer freezes, his back to Michael. He says nothing.

“I put you there at our Father's behest because I believed he was right—but I didn't spend even close to a _fraction_ of the time in Hell that you did, and I don't know how you did it. I just know you didn't deserve _that_. I won't ask for forgiveness, but know that I am sorry.”

Lucifer only inclines his head in acknowledgment before he leaves.

It's the best outcome Michael could have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head hurt when I was doing Hell-to-Earth conversions. I have no idea how long canonically Lucifer has been in the Cage. I stole 6,000 years as my starting point from Eden to now-ish from Good Omens >_>


	105. 105

**105**

Thursday, May 13, 2320

Dean looks up as Lucifer appears and sinks into a chair from across him at the kitchen table, not saying anything, just staring up at the ceiling. 

“Uh.” No pun intended, but Dean thinks he looks like Hell. “... You okay?” 

“No.”

“O...kay. You... need something?” Dean winces. He doesn't want it to sound like Lucifer should _leave_. “I mean, is there anything I can get you?” he says quickly.

“No.”

“Okay.” Dean isn't about to push. If Lucifer wants to be here, he's hardly going to complain. “If that changes, just let me know?”

“Mm.”

Dean returns to his work. They keep a peaceful silence until Sam lets himself in and Dean shoots his brother the most pointed warning glare that he can, and he's pleased when Sam doesn't try to start anything, just grabs a beer from the fridge and sits on the couch to read. 

“What was that about?” Sam asks when Lucifer, eventually, leaves without a word.

“Donno,” Dean says, trying to stamp the worry out of his voice but not succeeding very well if Sam's expression is anything to judge by, “bad day, I guess.” 

“Dean, what is—you two are—” Sam cuts himself off and shakes his head.

Dean's glad. He doesn't really want to know what his brother was trying to ask, but it was probably something he _didn't really_ want the answer to.


	106. 106

**106**

Friday, May 14, 2320

“How was it visiting the other Circles?” Ligthart asks. 

“Here's home,” Dean admits, and it's the truth. “It's... weird. Different city politics. Everyone operates in a similar fashion, but some places have more of a push back from other monsters.”

“Makes sense,” Ligthart says with a nod. “If they weren't directly under the Commandant's thumb, their reactions further down the road might start to shift from the overall public opinion.”

“Lucifer called Kansas City a bleeding-profusely wound once.”

“We were,” Ligthart agrees. He tilts his head in consideration, and then raises his drink in a mock toast. “I think we've come quite a long way in our healing, don't you?”

Dean's not sure Ligthart is only referring to the city. He thinks about the monsters, the humans. He thinks about himself, and then raises his own glass. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “I think you're right.”


	107. 107

**107**

Sunday, May 16, 2320

Castiel and Sam “held down the fort” well enough while Dean and Lucifer were gone, Castiel thinks.

Neither of them tried to kill Michael, and Michael—mostly—didn't try to kill them. There were... a lot of near-misses. Castiel would have thought without Lucifer around, Michael would be a calmer individual. He hadn't expected the opposite. Michael when Castiel had seen him in Heaven was a ball of energy with seemingly no desire to allow that energy to discharge. He was cooler in personality—not that Michael had previously been _kind_ to Castiel, and that made the difference so much worse. 

Castiel started to shadow Sam at the Circle meetings because he needed some form of distraction from Michael. But he didn't see the point of the meetings. They seemed tedious. The same news, the same talk. Castiel didn't understand them even as Sam explained to him it was about accountability. 

He needed to go back to flying the planet he decided. He had visited Hell once more and that was already one too many times. The planet was... It was like Benny. Benny saw monsters in a different light for Dean's sake; Castiel could see the world differently than Ruth could. They were both necessary and it seemed like Lucifer's trip with Dean was the first time in a very long time that he had cruised the planet. 

So he had wished Sam good luck with Michael and Adam, an added note to _reach out_ to him if Sam needed _anything_ , and he took his wings to the world.


	108. 108

**108**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Head throbbing, Dean wakes, slow. He tries to move and blinks his eyes open to find his wrists and ankles bound to a chair. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he groans, teeth clenched. He twists at the chair, but it refuses to move. A glance around the room provides him with little clarity—warehouse storage, maybe. Concrete floor, no windows, one door, and suddenly a very old woman standing in the doorway, hands folded over her front. 

“I guess it really is true,” she says to him. “The Lord _is_ gone. I'd never be able to restrain you otherwise.”

Lord, not Commandant, not Michael. Dean tries not to think too hard on what that means. 

“... Don't get me wrong, but I'm surprised you restrained me, anyway.” He tries to remember what he'd been doing—he'd just wanted to pick up something quick to snack on, flipping off the others when they suggested going along with him. He was fine, he didn't need a chaperone, _thanks_. 

He's going to get so mocked for this one. 

Dammit. 

He twists his wrists again. 

“When you're born into a world ruled by monsters you pick up a few things,” she says. 

“Yeah, I get that,” he replies, squinting at her. “But it's not the same, anymore?”

“No,” she admits. “It isn't. That doesn't change the things that happened.”

“It doesn't,” he agrees. “Look, I know better than most the things Michael did to this city—this _planet_. I get that you might want revenge, but this isn't the way. You gotta let me go.”

“No.”

Dean cocks his head, scoffing. “Ma'am,” he says, rotating his wrists, “these aren't going to hold me.”

“ _They_ won't,” she says, nodding once. “But I met some... people. They were into magic. Taught me some tricks. They were all killed, of course. The Lord... he had eyes everywhere... didn't let dissent fly. But they taught me how to bind all manner of beings... including humans. Just to keep me safe.” She looks away. “I can't kill you, but I can lock you away so that you won't be found. Until you die, slow. Like everyone in this world.” She smiles, brief, sad. “It's what you deserve.”

“Wait—”

She turns away.

“Hey! Let's talk about this! H- _HEY_!” Dean shakes at the chair but it still won't budge, likely nailed to the damn floor. “Lady, come _back_!” 

He seethes, and works to settle his thoughts, concentrate inwards on his song, and then tries to flare out that power and it _answers_ —it presses at his skin, and a responsive wave of sigils activate around the room. Dean stares at them. All manner of bindings—she wasn't kidding. That's angel warding, too. “No... _NO_!” 

He thrashes until a cool calm hits him and he stares straight ahead. “Adaira,” he starts. “ _Adaira_ ,” and he cuts himself off, hanging his head. He's asked her for things before, but it's usually in line with not killing someone. This is _different_. But he has to _try_. “You gotta get me out of these ropes.”

 _Yeah_. Because a hellhound under the command of the devil is really going to listen to some dipshit human. 

He feels warm breath on his hand and hears the rumble of a growl. Dean holds his breath, tries not to move. Teeth graze near his skin, just shy, and he watches with mystifying fascination as the ropes tear, invisible teeth gnawing away. She frees one wrist, then the other, and then she severs the ankle bindings.

Dean gets to his feet, rubbing at his wrists. “Good dog,” he says to the air. 

He makes it to the empty doorway and then ricochets off an unseen barrier, crashing to his back and skidding across the floor. “You're _kidding_ me!” he yells. He swears he hears a huff. “Yeah, stow it, pup! _Arrrg_! Dammit! Fine. _Fine_. Adaira, report to Lucifer.” He wanted to avoid this. “He can break the stupid warding. Hopefully.”

There's an answering growl, followed by silence. 

And then a high-pitched ringing screams through his mind.

He yells, curling in on himself.

_“She was right about one thing... I was gone from you. But you, staying here, that's not quite the plan.”_

No. It's just in his head. The various warding—while keeping Dean _in_ , should keep angels _out_. Archangels included.

 _“Yes, nice thought. One problem: she made a mistake. She left one... minuscule weak point. Or rather, I encouraged her to. See, I had started to cross worlds when her work on this containment caught my interest. It was so elaborate that I thought,_ well _, this could only be a box made for_ you _. She made me a receiving dock.”_

“It doesn't matter,” Dean shouts, so he can hear himself over the ringing. “I closed your damn door, you can't get me!”

_“Did you? Oh, Dean. I had you for centuries. Nothing you do matters as long as I have the master key.”_

As much as Dean wishes to deny it, he feels as though hands are reaching through his skull and splitting it open. The pain is blinding and _still_ the room's warding keeps Jack's power in slumber.

Even as the warding pulses and starts to burn.

_“Not fast enough. Just sit back, Dean. I'll take care of everything.”_

A pillar of white light spears the ceiling and strikes Dean directly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bounces*
> 
> … hi. And that would be the end of Part IV.
> 
> I mean really, this was to be expected. Right?


	109. PART V: 109

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Here's Part V. 
> 
> (I started writing alt-POVs of select chapters and some AU... things. Because this story has been under my skin for months so why would it stop I guess. ... Also my other WIP stuff I need to rewatch most of the series so that's... rough.)
> 
> Also, random, but I realized I did the math for Adam and Michael being in Hell for 310 years, for some reason, when it should have (always, despite my original author's note) been 210. My own continuity error lol. Like... wow. Way to catch that NOW, Self. Anyway I've fixed that. Maybe? I think the actual timeframe was only mentioned in 104.

###  **PART V**

> Carry me home there's no sorrow down in the ground  
>  Carry me home don't you weep for I am freedom bound  
>  Lay down my bones there is peace within the light I've found  
>  Release my soul, carry me home  
>  [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BnRyb1puIA&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=50) Carry Me Home by The Sweeplings

**109**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320 

The conference room has maps all along the walls, large sheets of paper next to each with various grouping of black-Sharpied names and businesses scrawled out in Sam's hand. The middle table holds a Thanksgiving-spread of books, including the journals Dean lent to Sam.

“Castiel, I don't know what you're complaining about,” Lucifer says. He's taken to perching on the back of the leather arm chair in one corner of the room, Michael leaning against the wall opposite of him, and Sam and Castiel manning the table. 

“I have flown this planet nearly fifty times in two days. I'm just saying, a little share in the work would be nice.”

“You did that to yourself,” Lucifer says, “but, sure, how about _you_ take over rule of Hell for a few days, hm? You want that migraine, be my guest. It's only a few hundred newborn demons complaining about how _scary_ the surface is. It's nauseating. So, you know, I'll trade.”

“... Uh.” 

“Some of us _are_ trying to do real work,” Sam says, unheard by any of the angels. Really, he thinks he should be used to this by now, but it still irritates him. He asked Dean once what the trick was, and Dean laughed at him. 

Sam can't really blame him, honestly. 

“I could tap out from Heaven,” Michael admits. “The silence is deafening.” 

“Maybe splitting the work isn't _quite_ the best plan after all,” Castiel says. 

“That's right,” Lucifer says, “that's what I thought. But lemme know if you change your—” He stops and turns his focus, staring at an empty space. “Adaira. What's wrong?”

The growling fills through the room.

Sam's head snaps up. “What—” His mind is already going into overdrive.

“Really? Trapped by a human? That's a new one. I should have made a bingo card.”

“What's going on?” Sam asks, eyes searching the room. He meets Castiel's equally concerned gaze. 

“Some chick trapped your brother. Soooo, I need to apparently blow through the _angel warding_ and get him out.” 

“A-And the...” Sam fixates on the spot that had snagged Lucifer's attention.

Lucifer waves a hand, jumping to the floor. “Adaira. Dean's... assigned hellhound.”

“You assigned a hellhound to _my brother_?!”

Lucifer shrugs. “'Your brother' is aware and since he _sent_ Adaira to me, I imagine he's a little desperate.”

Dean _knew_ he had a hellhound on him? His brother who was torn apart by hellhounds while Sam watched, helpless? If Dean _knew_ , he could have easily killed it... but he... he _let_ it be. 

(It makes Sam wonder just how _much_ Dean still hasn't told him. How much Dean doesn't trust him. And, probably, with good reason. Sam would have killed the hellhound the moment he knew.)

“So,” Lucifer says, clapping his hands together. “Anyone want to join me?”

Michael sighs and pushes away from the wall. 

And immediately crumples to the floor, grace bleeding from Adam's skin like he can no longer contain the archangel. 

Sam shouts, hands pressing over his ears and both Lucifer and Castiel are on full-alert. Michael lurches, body contorting against his will, and his head snaps back, neck twisting, a sorrowful sob dragging out of him that is both him and Adam. His gaze locks to Lucifer.

“ _He's here_ ,” he forces out. 

“What?” Lucifer demands. 

Sam swears the room temperature plummets, goosebumps forming over his skin as he shivers.

Castiel goes towards Michael, but Michael waves him back. He collapses to his side, but still, urgently, maintains eye contact with Lucifer, pleading with him to understand. “Michael,” he rasps. His face is wet with tears. 

“He can't be,” Lucifer denies.

“I'm sorry.”

Sam wants to beg, wants to _know_ what they're talking about, even as his ears bleed. He looks between Michael's tears and Lucifer's— _Lucifer's_ raw emotion, split open for all to see, and Sam doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what that _means_. Grief and fear and prayer don't _belong_ on the devil's face.

“Castiel, come with me,” Lucifer says slowly. 

“ _But_ —” Castiel looks to their fallen brother. 

Lucifer closes his eyes for a moment. “Please,” his voice cracks. 

Sam stares at him.

“I,” Lucifer pauses, tries again, “if he's back we have to be know Dean is unharmed.”

_'Michael.'_

_'If he's back.'_

No. No, no, no, they _can't_ mean Apocalypse Michael. That was supposed to be a closed chapter in their lives! 

Castiel nods after a cautious moment. Sam watches them leave, and then pulls himself across the floor to Michael. “ _Hey_ , are you...?”

Michael has fallen limp, arms crossed over one another, a vacant look in his eyes. He's stopped surging from his vessel and Sam's ears stop bleeding, but every so often the archangel still contorts like a fish out of water. 

“Michael?” Sam says. “Adam?”

Sam hadn't exactly allowed himself to get close to Adam, certainly not to Michael. He remembers the two of them in the bunker, when him and Dean had denounced Michael saying anything about _family_ , and the complete rage that overtook Michael until Adam stepped in. Adam had been rightfully angry, but he had still been trying to protect them.

Sam later realized it was probably for the Dean of the future. Sam had to admit he was sometimes jealous of Dean and Adam. He wasn't allowed in the bubble they had formed around them, and that was mostly fine. Sam was glad that Dean had _someone_ other than Lucifer and Michael to fall back on. It just... hurt. Sometimes. 

(His mind flashes back to Lucifer's expression just now, and he forces it out of his thoughts.)

He wishes he had tried more with Adam. Now, seeing them like this... was he too late?

“Michael, please, I don't know how to help.” 

Michael hisses as his body fights against him again. He answers, weakly, spitting, “ _Pray_.”

Not a good sign, Sam thinks. “Anything else?” he asks. 

Michael laughs. He hiccups. “Be ready.” He grins, teeth bloody.


	110. 110

**110**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

_A pillar of white light spears—_

“... _No_ ,” Lucifer whispers. 

Oh, Lucifer had known that Michael would be hunting for his sword, a shark circling its prey, knew that he would play mind games or find a vessel and hound Dean to the ends of the Earth... 

But he wasn't supposed to be able to reclaim Dean, and Lucifer can't imagine _anything_ Michael would have threatened Dean with to make him _ever_ say “yes” again to him. Not with the weight of his guilt killing him a little more every day of his life. And Dean had said to Lucifer that Death had fixed the crack that allowed Michael to repossess him.

He doesn't know what that means for _Dean_. What Michael must have _done_ to him. 

The warding explodes, and it has nothing to do with his or Castiel's efforts in breaking it down, having both taken opposite sides of the warehouse that Adaira had led them to, where somewhere within Dean was locked away. 

(Adaira wasn't okay. He's seen a panicked hellhound before, when Dean lost control of his song. This was something else. Uncertainty? _Guilt_? And simply _off_ , just a little. Dazed. 

Trapped by a human, but now he wonders just how much more there was to that report.) 

Lucifer skids back from the force of it, eyes blinking away stars. He expects to see Michael gunning straight for Lucifer again, a walking nightmare, but there's nothing. Just a deathly silence and all of Lucifer's nerves holding their breath.

If Michael isn't _here_...

Castiel.


	111. 111

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-QFrX1jItM&list=PLRN6-sEafycRdvi9k6Xmhp-RqUPfaoF1n&index=7) Chiral by Ben Chatwin

**111**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

_A pillar of white—_

“Castiel.”

Castiel turns from his work on the warding, the pillar still burnt into his retinas. “Dean,” he says in a plea.

“I wondered what happened to you, brother. You and... Sam. I looked forward to killing you both, but you were just... _gone_ , leaving Dean to think that— _well_ , that his family had abandoned him.”

Castiel's shoulder drop. No. This shouldn't... He swallows. “... Michael. You were supposed to be...”

“Gone?” He grins, amusement tight on Dean's face. “I took a mandatory vacation, yes, when I was expelled. Had to... get my feet back under me, as it were. God made sure it hurt. And you know, it was the first time I'd heard the old man's voice since _oh_ , since the Beginning.” Michael sighs. “Dare I say I'd forgotten what he could sound like.”

“I thought you were going to kill God,” Castiel says. 

“But I did kill God,” Michael replies. “I _razed_ all his other worlds to the ground and settled into this world. I didn't have to hunt him. I thought it was... _better_ this way. _Poetic_.” 

A sneer plays on Michael's face and he steps towards Castiel.

“I made _God_ feel like I had. _Small_. Unimportant. Because _everyone_ worshiped _me_ and he was left with nothing to hold him aloft. By keeping _one_ world under my thumb, the _last_ of his creations, I thought I could keep him that way, forever.” He scoffs. “I won't be making that mistake again. You may have given him back a fraction of his strength, but he's _nothing_ compared to me. This time... this time he doesn't get to live.”

“Michael—”

Michael clenches a fist and Castiel crumples under the strength there, Michael unbound and _king_ to his universe's Laws. Castiel may not be under the same rules as the pair of archangels, too weak comparatively to be restricted, but that doesn't give him any advantage when faced with Earth's Lord. He feels his bones break, forced to his knees, gasping. 

“I chose _not_ to exterminate all the humans before,” Michael continues, stepping up to loom over Castiel, gaze frenzied. “I needed some to... get the work done. Keep the machine flowing.” He chuckles and as he shifts his wrist, Castiel falls to his side, his vessel collapsing in on itself. “Fill in as... decorations.”

Castiel watches as Michael looks away, his attention quickly diverted, and some of the pain eases. 

Michael flits himself backwards, and his expression becomes impassive, not that manic glee he used on Castiel. “Lucifer,” Michael greets. 

Castiel rolls his head over gravel and stares at Lucifer, never thinking in his life that he'd be so _relieved_ to see the devil. 

“Michael,” Lucifer answers. 

Michael shakes out his wrists, tsking softly, and then draws his hands down his vessel, resewing the fabrics of Dean's outfit into his preferred ensemble. 

“I don't have time for you. Castiel would have been _fun_ , but you,” he sighs, “I'm disappointed in you. So much wasted potential.” He smiles. “... But I like seeing that fear in your eyes. It's a nice touch. You'll have to excuse me, however. I've waited three centuries to tear Sam Winchester apart. But— _ah_.” He casts his gaze down to Castiel. “God, humans. None of them get to live this time.” 

“Don't,” Castiel murmurs.

“ _Michael_ ,” Lucifer yells, flying forward, but Michael evades, smile wide as his eyes cloud with radiance. 

“Watch your house of cards _burn_ ,” Michael shouts. He snaps, and Castiel jolts as though he was shot. He tries to move, but his grace is still fighting to regenerate the damage Michael did to his vessel. 

And then Michael is gone. 

Castiel stares at the empty space until Lucifer is filling his vision, kneeling down by Castiel. 

“No,” Castiel groans. “There's no time, you have to go after him, he's going after Sam.”

“ _Castiel_ , you're in no position—”

“I'll catch up,” Castiel interrupts. “Sam has _no_ defenses. Dean can't handle seeing his brother killed _again_.”

Castiel frowns at something unrecognizable passing through Lucifer's expression, but then Lucifer nods, and Castiel is left alone with his injuries.


	112. 112

**112**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

_“Michael, hang in there,”_ Adam begs. 

This isn't like Hell. Maybe if there was any separation between their essences, Adam could divorce himself from the suffering shivering through Michael, but this time he's along for the ride and while he'd never wish Michael to suffer alone, he needs to get control of their body and he _can't_. 

The world whites out and they see Dean appear in the room, but they see _through_ him, they see who— _what_ —he really is and it's disorienting to feel all the signs of _Michael_ reflecting between the two of them, familiar but _wrong_ , so wrong that their body wrenches violently just to get _away_. 

“Oh, _Michael_ ,” their other says with a lilt, looking down on them with disgust. “What an abomination you are. I remember killing you, in here, just like I remember killing everyone.” He taps at Dean's head. “ _Now_ I get to torture Adam a second time and have _new_ sets of memories, isn't that nice?”

Their eyes flare like stars and they roll forward, anger quickly getting the best of them despite their pain and nearly-nonexistent restraint, “If you think—”

“I don't think.” He smiles. “But, you're going to have to wait. _Him_ ,” he points one finger at Sam, who's still knelt besides them, keeping his gaze on his counterpart, “I'm more interested in. Dean needs to understand, you see.”

They cry, “I'm sorry, Sam,” even as they try to _move_ , but their wings won't cooperate, mangled and held down by the sheer alien presence. It isn't right. _They_ are the Michael that is sovereign to this planet. _They_ should be allowed to walk while this corrupted lookalike falls beneath their might. 

But they can't.

“Sam, no,” they continue, as Sam stands and steps away from them, a give and take of space as the two move about the room, conference table between them. 

They see fresh blood drip from Sam's hand and splatter to carpet and their world falls out of alignment, stretched out celestial senses breaking down everything around them until it feels like there's no difference between them, the floor, the blood. They hear laughter and it's an off-beat song and Dean had mentioned songs and— _oh_ , are they going to have to watch Sam die?


	113. 113

**113**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Lucifer is across the room in a blink, hand to Apocalypse Michael's throat, hurling him away from Sam and into the maps. “Do not lay a hand on that pretty Winchester's head,” he says lowly, “I may not need him as my vessel these days, but I'm still _just a tad_ possessive of my toys.”

He gets an elbow to his face for his troubles, and the glint of gold stutters Lucifer's breath, dodging a fatal blow to take a slice of the archangel blade to his arm, blood and grace rolling to the floor.

He stares at Dean's face but there's no scrap of the humanity there, his brother channeling all his anger towards Lucifer—and it's better that way, Lucifer thinks. Better him than Sam. 

_'Dean can't handle seeing his brother killed_ again _.'_

_'And make him watch another brother killed in front of him?'_

Dammit.

(It's easier this way, too, Lucifer thinks. That none of this feels like he's fighting _Dean_.)

“You shouldn't have come back, _brother_ ,” Lucifer tells him, backing up a step, gaze looking to Sam, and the way his hand traces swipes of blood on the wall and he masks a sharp intake of breath. A chance look to the ailing form of his _actual_ brother and Lucifer isn't sure Michael and Adam will _survive_ a Banishing Spell. 

Adam had said it was bad, back when he refused to allow Michael to time travel with Lucifer, but Lucifer would have never guessed the _degree_ of it. And now he's left alone, again, in this fight that he _knows_ he has no chance. Maybe he should have ignored Castiel's demand to _go_ , but he knows Castiel was right: Sam would already be dead.

Apocalypse Michael spreads his arms. “I couldn't leave Dean to think I'd abandoned him after all these years we've been together. Not after everyone _else_ had.”

“ _Get out_ of my brother!” Sam shouts. 

“No,” Apocalypse Michael answers, flourishing his arm without turning and slamming Sam against the wall before he can complete his sigil. He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “I'm comfortable, Sam. This is where I belong. This _world_ is where I belong. And it doesn't belong to God.” He turns and stalks towards the younger Winchester. “It doesn't belong to _these_ archangels. It belongs. To. _Me_.”

Lucifer charges for him, blade blocked by a thrusting arm, Apocalypse Michael whorling back around for him, and spears Lucifer's empty hand, driving his blade through a map of Asia and into the wall. “I may be in a _weakened_ state compared to my former glory,” he growls, “but you can't beat me. You never could.”

Lucifer tries to fly from the hold and Apocalypse Michael clamps a hand into his wing, the same spot he had sliced in a past time. His brother laughs. “I get it now. That was you that tried to kill me, wasn't it?” He sinks his fingers in, tearing, smile growing at Lucifer's scream. “How many times have you failed to best me?”

Lucifer's gaze blurs and drops to where Michael is bleeding on the floor, pitched in torment and whispering a mantra of _“I'm sorry”_. Lucifer's eyes roll back in his head. 

Castiel reappears and Apocalypse Michael takes one look at him and he careens across the room and a force pins him right alongside Sam. 

“No, no,” he says. “I won't have any interruption.” He focuses back on Lucifer and twists the blade. “My world had _order_ ,” he tells Lucifer slowly. “There was no mess. It was organized. It had its own little partitions. You always break everything, Lu. I left you with _perfection_ and come back to _tarnish_.”

“Nothing you ever touched was perfection,” Lucifer rasps, body shifting as he tries to free himself, but it only drives the hold deeper and he pants in pain. 

Apocalypse Michael laughs. He tilts his head. “It's no wonder our Father cast you out, no matter the world. Yes... think, Lucifer. Every one of God's spinning marbles of reality— _every_ one of them—and he throws you out and locks you away.”

Dammit. Lucifer doesn't think he's _lying_ , and he isn't even surprised. He beats his head back. His energy is waning even as he seethes in place. 

This isn't about him. “Let. Him. _Go_.”

“Why? Because you care about him? I know you; you don't care about anything. You just want me out of the picture again so you can continue to weave your web of discord. And— _ha_ , Lucifer,” he purrs, elation coloring his tone, “have you been playing guardian angel to my vessel?” 

Lucifer grits his teeth.

“I do appreciate that you've kept it in pristine condition—such a beautiful job,” he scoffs, “so much that he actually thinks you might save him.” His lips twitch. “Remarkable, really. You always play such a good actor.”

“And you've always been an idiot,” Lucifer drones. There's a numbness to his wing now and he thinks that's a bad sign. 

“Well,” Apocalypse Michael starts, before wrenching away with a snarl, heel of his palm pressing into his temple. “ _All of you_ ,” he bellows, “will _stay_ in _LINE_!” His eyes flash and he stares through empty space, bolstering his power, suffocating the very air around him. “I require order,” he demands.

The glow of his eyes flicker.

Castiel and Sam drop quite suddenly from the wall, Sam barely grabbing Castiel in time to steady him from collapsing completely. 

Lucifer slumps like his strings have been cut and he has to fight to lift his arm to withdraw the archangel blade from his hand, spinning it in his grip. He watches Apocalypse Michael's attention swing like a pendulum back to him, a rage Lucifer could once mirror in every muscle of his stolen body.

Here they go again, Lucifer thinks. 

His bindings shriek into view. 

The sickly ethereal energy that has always twined with the radiance of their Father fractures like glass, spidering along the links. Lucifer stares in shock and then they rupture, light bleeding through the air. He looks down to Michael, seeing the same burst of chains. 

“How's that 'order' working for you?” Lucifer mocks, gaze sliding back to Apocalypse Michael. 

“My control is unwavering,” is the dangerous response. His grace cracks through their very reality, this the soldier that destroys worlds, who's killed multiple versions of his family and _will kill God_. A deathly groan vibrates the air and his power, a beast of its own, hooks its teeth into Lucifer and gouges through his energy reserves, siphoning from him and Lucifer shudders at the unexpected, dizzying loss. 

Chaos erupts. 

The hundred-pound mass of hellhound crashes into Apocalypse Michael's side, teeth latching into an arm to hold him steady as Michael uses the invigoration from the broken bindings to get to his feet and channel his surging power into slicing a rift open to Purgatory with a snap, and staggering forward to put all his strength into hefting his counterpart through and sealing the path. 

Lucifer can breathe again. He _stares_. “What did you—”

“Lucifer,” Michael says, tone placating, taking in Sam and Castiel's matching terror. “We have nothing working in our favor here. We do in Purgatory.” 

“They'll rip him apart!” Lucifer yells. He hurls Apocalypse Michael's archangel blade on the table like it's burned him and reclaims his own, angry. 

“All the Leviathans in Purgatory will lock in on him,” Castiel says, “I don't know what their affects will be like on an archangel, but I doubt it will be anything kind...”

“What happens to _Dean_ if Michael dies in Purgatory?” Sam demands. 

“Listen to me,” Michael says to everyone. “The Leviathan presence will keep him from being able to rift back. He isn't going to go down easy, and I'm not saying we leave him there.”

Lucifer slumps against the wall, catching his breath. “I-I have to—”

“I know,” Michael says. “I know. We'll get Dean back. Lucifer, we can take him.”

Lucifer looks up at him, considering, and then after a moment, nods. “If she's still alive, Adaira might be tracking him. Not that I imagine locating him will be very difficult.”

“Not just the Leviathans,” Castiel starts, “but the entire population of Purgatory will be moving for him.”

“And so will we.” He pushes a thumb over the puncture of his palm, imperfectly healing the injury, but they don't have time for anything more. He'll have to be careful flying, but he'll risk permanent damage if it gets Dean back. “Castiel, Sam, stay here and check in with the city. He had stolen control of the monsters again, but I _hope_ with him in Purgatory and the rift sealed that it broke and it was only a brief time.” 

“Enough time to do damage, however,” Michael sighs.

“But—”

“Sam,” Lucifer interrupts, meeting his gaze. “I _will_ bring him back.”

He refuses to fail.


	114. 114

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4x3cPzOy9c&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=53) Light by Nathan Wagner

**114**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

“ _So_ , Dean, you really want to do this again? It didn't work very well for you—either of the times—which is interesting, isn't it? There's two versions of when I won.” He nods like a new piece of knowledge slots into place. “I always wondered what happened. Time travel.” He clicks his tongue. “How did you tame the devil, I wonder, to get him to travel through time for you?”

“Dick. There's no 'taming' Lucifer.”

In a corner of the endless woods of Purgatory, Michael stands, tense and anticipating battle. Dean knows one thing: Michael as an archangel is an _inferno_ of a beacon, blazing for all monsters to see. The best meal, challenge, and trophy. 

Dean sure wouldn't mind being torn to shreds by monsters if it meant Michael was along for that ride, too. 

“I'm not going to lose to a bunch of unrestrained beasts,” Michael tells him. “I've turned them to my side once before; I will do it again.”

“Purgatory plays by its own rules; they won't bow to you.”

“We'll see. First, you.” 

“Let's do it,” Dean taunts, making a _come here_ gesture with both his hands, adjusting his stance. “I'm more ready for our last dance than I could ever be.”

“Cocky,” Michael chides. 

In a corner of Dean's mind, dead center in Rocky's Bar, two Deans square-off. Michael goes for the first blow and Dean leans back, only for Michael's fist to be blocked by the icy-cold radiance of a shield around Dean and he _staggers_ backwards, shock in his expression, and Dean feels the wicked contentment bubble up in him, his eyes glowing like dim candlelight. 

“ _What_ ,” Michael demands, drawing himself up.

“Surprise,” Dean chirps. “Been wanting to do that for a _long_ time.”

“This is a trick,” Michael growls, prowling around the perimeter. He _slams_ two fists into it, hissing at the frostbite that eats into his hands. “ _How_?”

“How do you _think_?” Dean sings. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one of your brothers. Seems you're falling a bit short, Michael.”

Michael cracks Dean's shield with a third hit, pushing his fists into the burn. 

“I thought I taught you respect once, Dean. Perhaps Lucifer—or my other, and his human-loving self—let that wash out of you.”

“What you should remember, _Michael_ , is that you couldn't teach me jackshit.” Dean drops his shield at will and steps back as Michael stumbles with the abrupt lack of support. Dean slides his hands into his pockets looking as carefree as he could be.

This is his mind. His power. _He's_ in charge. Not Michael. Never again Michael. 

“Come onnn, just think. How could _I_ possibly have any _real_ power? Hm. I think—”

Outside, something tackles his body. It's Michael fighting off teeth, reaching up with both hands and snapping jaws in half with a yell of fury, rolling and looking up as more predators are sizing him up on the periphery, waiting for a chance to move in and strike. 

“You _mangy_ abominations,” Michael yells at them.

“Aw, Michael,” Dean says in his head, hands having bound Michael's arms behind his back in his distraction, “I thought you were going to be diplomatic with them. Seems like you're losing your touch.”

Michael's mental self drops to his knees, taking Dean with him and heaving him over his head to break the hold. Outside, he tangles with the werewolf pack, killing one after another. 

Dean tumbles out of the way and gets to his feet. “I'll give you a hint,” he says, trying to amplify the energy in order to see _out_ while Michael is so heavily preoccupied. Werewolves, vampires, oh my. There will be Leviathans soon enough, and _that_ will be a problem that Dean's not sure Michael can handle in this venue. “Jack.”

Michael looks at him, eyes like dying stars. “ _You_ ,” he says so low, “that's where it went.”

Dean laughs, and it feels _good_. As long as Michael keeps fighting off the entirety of Purgatory, Dean has a chance. To do what, he's not sure. Maybe he could get rid of Michael himself, leave the archangel vesselless in Purgatory. Maybe he could even _cage_ Michael... but then either way it would leave only Dean to all of Purgatory, and then he'd _definitely_ die. 

But he doesn't imagine Lucifer's just going to _let_ him stay in Purgatory.

“He's not going to save you!” Michael roars, and the bar dissolves from under them, being replaced by the screaming of Hell from the dark recesses of Dean's memory. 

Michael slowly walks a circle around him, forcing his will through their minds, conjuring the Rack. Conjuring Alistair and dragging hooks into Dean, pulling him back on chains. 

“You were never meant to be anything more than a _key_ to unlocking Lucifer's Cage. All you are to him is...” He tilts his head, reading through Dean like a boring book. “... an _incubator_ for that power. He'll cut it out one day and leave you to rot, forgotten, in Hell. Sam's not gonna save you. Not Castiel again. _Certainly_ not my other self. You may have saved them from their Fate—but they will _never_ forgive you for dooming the planet.”

Dean smiles and chuckles, lying limply in the hold of the Rack. He hears the telltale landing of the Leviathans outside of this space. Searches the growing mob that Michael executes. Something stirs in his awareness. Scales and smoke and fire. 

“Michael. Anyone ever tell you that you were _wrong_ to your face?”

Michael stares down at him like he's no bigger than a grain of sand.

Dean spits at him. “You're wrong.”

In the epicenter of an earthquake, Dean's power ripples through his mind, freezing everything in its path, Michael included. It won't give Dean long, but he wrangles control of his body from Michael, desperately clawing his way over the pile of bodies and finding that source of fire that he had sensed. There—he raises his voice as loud as he can, “I've been granted the breath of Kuehner the Behemoth, give me pardon!” 

The dragon pauses, observing Dean with absolute bemusement. Dean swears, his time already up as a Leviathan and all its teeth looms over him. He realizes angrily that when Michael decided to “retailor” his vessel, he ditched Dean's Leviathan-killing knife.

What an asshole. Thank god he made more than one.

He slices instead with the angel blade before he even _recognizes_ it's in his hand. Another Leviathan crowds his side and he only manages to kick out in a scramble, unable to turn quick enough. 

He watches as a fiery hand melts through the skull and teeth, dropping it for the moment, and Dean is face to face with a dragon and for one stupid second in his life he doesn't think he's afraid.

The dragon nods in acknowledgment. “I accept,” he says. “What do you require?”

Dean gestures to the growing forces of everything nasty. “I'm kinda good with all this here. It's the Leviathans I'm worried about. I'm about to lose control again. But anything weaker will keep Michael distracted and I think—I think I just need to buy time, until _my_ reinforcements show.” 

“Sounds fun,” the dragon says. He turns and shakes out his shoulders and Dean watches as red-hot veins burble along his skin like tiny rivers. His form shifts and two large, leathery-mottled wings extend themselves and more scales than skin start to dot his body before he's lunging into the crowd. 

Against Dean's better judgment, he let's himself sink into his mind and forcefully throws Michael back into control in order to deal with the monsters.

Better him than Dean. 

Alistair is breathing in his face when Dean's mentalscape reopens itself to him and just for good measure, Dean spits at him, too, before he tries to call up something a little more roomier. 

“Dean, why must we do this?” Michael asks, but he sounds _tired_. 

“Because you're an asshole and I hate you,” Dean says cheerily, as the main area of the Men of Letters bunker coalesces around them. He'd told Sam once that being there gave him too many painful memories, but now it's those memories that ground him to his very Self. 

“And yet,” Michael says, “you love Lucifer.”

“Hey. _Rude_ ,” Dean snaps. “I haven't even gotten to talk to him about that yet—you shouldn't get to know first!”

“I don't understand you,” Michael says with an honestly that Dean doesn't think he's ever heard before. “I thought I did, once. But now you're just... a different kind of weakness.”

“Yeaaah, _Mike_ , I'm starting to think you don't know the meaning of strength.”

Michael jerks just before a Leviathan eats his face off, but the dragon rends it in half; he doesn't have much of a recovery as two arachne come for him.

Michael laughs, “You made a friend; I'm impressed.”

“Turns out all your possessed monsters aren't complete asshats.”

“Yes... I can see that in your memories. Their... what? Desire to protect humans because they _long_ for their old humanity? No, I don't understand them, either. Fine though. I can accept that.” He shakes his head. “ _How_ do you think this is going to end, Dean? You think you can eject me? Without _God's_ help?”

“No,” Dean says. 

He's drawing up chains of ice, picturing in his mind the bindings that for so long had Lucifer on a metered limit, the glistening, near-translucent links. Michael looks down at them and snorts derisively, stepping away, but Dean doesn't stop—they move in a waltz, zigzagging, cobra-snatching bites. Dean smirks, head tilting. “You wanna know something, Michael? I know why you killed all those prophets. You were always gonna be my Fate. Past, future, guess it didn't matter.”

Michael looks up at him, intrigued. 

The _moment_ Dean has his attention, his icelight chains _snap_ around Michael's wrists. 

“I'm not here to kick you out,” Dean tells him. “I'm here to watch you _burn_.”

Michael angrily thrashes mentally and physically, still holding control of Dean's body, but _lesser_ , weaker. He _howls_ at Dean, the mentalscape reverberating from his presence alone, and all the while Dean just smiles, twirling a light mist around his finger like spinning a key ring. 

“Nothing's changed,” he boasts to Michael. “Either my monsters _tear you apart_ , or Lucifer gets here. But tonight... you die.”

“You think you're funny, don't you.”

“I think I'm _hilarious_.”

Michael bodily pitches forward, raises a leg up to high-kick Dean in the chest, and following with a thrust of his shoulder. 

Dean holds to the chains for dear life, taking each blow with a cough and a groan, unable to fight back _and_ keep the bindings on Michael. 

“I'm not letting go!” Dean roars, trying to dodge, but Michael makes a feint then slips into his space, heel coming down on Dean's foot, twisting, and then knees Dean in the gut. 

Dean crumbles and curls in on himself, protectively shielding his hands and the wrap of his power, the shackles still shrieking around Michael's wrists as Michael just kicks and _kicks_. “ _I'm not letting go_!”


	115. 115

**115**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Kuehner has had better days. 

She had not been witness to the Culling of the planet under Michael's control. She had been existing in Purgatory, coiled on ever-burning coals, left alone in her dominion of Purgatory until Reaper after _Reaper_ drew at her soul, at her scales, pulling her apart little by little. The occasional monster had tried to harass her, but their bones always joined the pile that surrounded her.

Reapers though... Reapers were unending, and every time her true form lost some of its glamour, some of its power. No matter how many she smacked down, more appeared, until her soul was screeching _beyond_ , and _life_ was pumping through her—bones and a new vessel cracking into being, but something was _wrong_. Something foreign was in her bloodstream, awakening within her in time with the fire in her veins and she _didn't have control_ of her mind. 

She was besieged by a world she didn't recognize and her very will was usurped before she even had a chance to understand it. 

That same press of _control_ seeps through her again, freezing fire and forcing her into a form she doesn't dare take anymore—the closest she's come to it when she was defending what _belonged_ to her. 

She fights against it, even as claws cleave through asphalt and her tail lashes around her, human skin dissolving under blistering heat.

Her fire is no longer hers. 

_“Leave none alive,”_ presses into her mind even as she roars. 

The Second Culling is something she _never_ wanted to be a part of. This city belonged to her. This city was hers to protect. 

The massive creature that takes her place—wingspan splaying the width of the street, jaws the size of the car skidding to a stop before her, and black spines protruding out of every surface—is none other than Kuehner the Behemoth.


	116. 116

**116**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Well, fuck, Ligthart thinks. 

He fights to send out a mass-text message even as his control is slipping, but what's the point, really? The Circle isn't going to be able to do anything more, and if the Commandant has resurfaced, Dean and that whole messed-up household will be in the thick of it. 

He didn't want to go through this again. The first time, Michael had found him—a feat impressive enough on its own. No one just _finds_ a dragon. It's why his offer for power was meaningless to him. Ligthart's kind was adept at stealth; they had to be, as extant as they were. He should have charred the archangel right then and there—wouldn't that have solved a lot of their problems? 

But it was Michael's _secondary_ offer that had Ligthart's interest. The ability to come _out_ of the shadows again, to rule as kings, as they were meant to. 

For being an ancient being, he'd been so fucking naive. 

Looking back, even as the Commandant's presence overtakes him once more, he doesn't recognize the person that agreed to that deal. 

He tries, in one last effort, to send out a prayer to Lucifer. 

It's swallowed by the inferno.


	117. 117

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0Guqt_IVtM&list=PLRN6-sEafycSrV4eCYyN6K12tCnmkHdO2&index=54) Cover Me by Black Math

**117**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

“ _RUN_!” Priya's command blares through the street. “Run, hide, get everyone to safety!”

It's the last thing she's able to say.

* * *

“Hey now, what's... what's this all about?” Benny asks the werewolf family, stepping away as their eyes each take on the same matched sheen of Light.

“It's—it's happening again,” Garth moans. “Get _out_. Find—”

Find Dean, Benny's sure he was going to say. But he can't _leave_ them like this. They took him in, let him come back after whenever he scouted outside of the city, gave him a place to call home even though he's never fit in with his own kind, or humans, but it's a bunch of _werewolves_ where he felt settled?

“I'm going to figure this out,” he tells them, dodging Gertie as she takes a swipe at him and Bess nearly bites him. The rest of the pack is awakening in the park—they'd gotten used to him being around, but he still always, _always_ felt watched.

He doesn't feel watched now.

He feels _hunted_.

He dials Dean and listens as it rings and rings and...

* * *

Elise Pruitt hides beneath her counter. She's read all the journals she's given to Lord Michael— _Dean Winchester—_ she knows what's happening in the streets, knows it like she's lived it before, through those stories.

This wasn't supposed to be something that happened in her lifetime.

There's fire and death in the streets and she thinks she forgot to lock the storefront.

* * *

“ _Hayden_ , fight it,” Morris begs, backing away slowly as his friend howls and shifts, tearing at his arms as though the self-infliction would be enough to ground him. Morris isn't having a great time himself, but he'd like to fool himself that he could force away the Commandant.

He didn't even try before. It didn't matter. He knew his will was being taken away but he had little care for himself and the world; if he went to sleep for a little while, then so be it.

(It wasn't a little while, it was three-hundred years and he had _regrets_. He'd never thought he'd live long enough, even as a vampire, to have regrets.)

He looks around them. “Hayden, we need to get off the streets.”

“ _Can't_ ,” Hayden moans, dropping to his knees. “I'd forgotten...” He bites down on his tongue.

Morris had, too. He takes a deep breath and lurches forward, grabbing Hayden by the shoulder and pulling him along.

And then there is no shoulder to hold onto anymore. When Morris whips back around there is a coyote in place of a man, eyes glowing radiant.

Morris goes to run, only making it a few storefronts down before the gong sounds in his own mind and as he begs for the ringing to clear, he loses himself completely.

* * *

Rosio remembers the streets alive with shouts and screams. He remembers running and hiding, hiding and running. It had been hours, he thinks, of evading monsters. A few times he helped others along, pointed out quiet places to duck away and catch their breath.

But no one could hide forever.

He remembers the blur of eyes and then teeth sunk into his neck, as the infection spread through his veins. His attacker was already gone, moving to the next target. The change wasn't pleasant, it wasn't quick, but for one foolish moment he had thought that this could _help_ him. He could use this to help people.

And then a voice he'd never forget had spun a web through his mind and he knew there would be no helping anyone now; he knew he'd be just another reason for the screaming.

Rosio hears that voice again and he remembers irrationally cornering Dean Winchester in the street and not being brutally murdered by the Commandant. He remembers finally talking with the man at Howl at the Moon.

Now, the upstairs of Howl at the Moon comes _awake_ , webs shifting, his nestmates always staying out of the way during the meetings, keeping to themselves.

The last thing he thinks before the Commandant's order sweeps over him again is that Michael and Dean really didn't sound the same, and how did he never notice?

* * *

“ _Leave none alive,”_ whispers through Ruth's mind, the words everywhere and nowhere and not at all meant for _her_.

She hears the other angels, more distant, like Apocalypse Michael was filling the radio waves with too _much_ , drowning out everything else. She hears Michael's brokenhearted mantra, she hears Lucifer's incoherent _rage_ , she hears Castiel's desperate attempt to rally himself.

She thinks there's something else out there. A thrum of sound, increasing as time marches on. It _hurts_ her head. She curls up in her hiding place, migraine pounding away with no reprieve. She tries to focus on the low pants of Conall, the hellhound's protection her only relief.

“'Thy aberrant soldier must taketh the blade once more,'” she murmurs, unable to hear even herself speak. She bites back a sob. Shouldn't a prophet be able to interpret her prophecies correctly? “I'm sorry, Dean,” she whispers, and hopes that he can somehow, while possessed, hear her.

* * *

The control isn't absolute.

There are slivers. Weak cracks. Or, maybe, they just decided to fight it, this time. Right off the bat. They'd spent over a year awake, retaking the planet and shaping it and _safeguarding_ it. This was theirs. They had a _right_ to it, now. Some strange, new unity with humanity.

There were outliers. There would always be. But the majority rule said _no_. We won't be the monsters of lore.

It starts as a trickle. The whispers of prayer hadn't been unusual—that had been the goal, always. The God Plan. Always testing the waters, unsure. But the more they pushed, the more the planet around them opened up, breathed in time with its inhabitants.

It—

It follows, in a flood.


	118. 118

**118**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

The connection cracks, and then it severs completely. 

The pair of kitsune had been tearing through the streets, trapping the running citizens of Kansas City in boxes of illusions, cornering them and cutting off the tides. They moved together where the first time they were separate forces, picking off humans from the shadows, infecting. 

There's blood on their claws. There's no infecting this time. Bodies drop even as they thrash in their minds, foxes with tails caught in a trap. They fight back even as they lose track of the body count. They fight back even as despair threatens to constrict them. 

But the connection _breaks_ , and though it had been only twenty minutes, tops, it still feels like three-hundred years, still that uncertainty of the first time they woke up. Is this real? Is this a game? What happened to the Commandant? 

They don't know. They _can't_ know. Maybe it's another year this time. Are they ever going to have full control over themselves again?

“Arrel,” Hava whispers. She looks around them and shivers before focusing back on Arrel's hunched form. Hava has to fight to pull their illusions back to themselves, and some weak part of her wants to blanket them out, make the streets appear clear instead of the carnage around them. But she _won't_. This happened. She refuses to ignore it. “ _Arrel_.” She kneels down before her and Arrel flicks away, pupils blown, irises gleaming, hair moving like another animal entirely. 

Hava starts to speak but she hears a sound nearby and darts to shield Arrel. “Let's move,” Hava murmurs, eyes skimming the silent street. “It's not safe.”

“Nowhere's safe,” Arrel lulls. 

“Perhaps,” Hava agrees. “Somewhere is better than here.”

“This much blood will act as a _warning_ ,” Arrel argues, “stay away there's monsters in the streets.”

Monster. Hava trembles. When was the last time anyone called them monsters? Is it different, maybe, when they refer to themselves as such?

(Dean would be able to answer that, but she doesn't believe Dean to be alive anymore, and isn't that disheartening?)

“Come,” Hava orders, cutting low and melding with shadow. Arrel perks at the command, and she follows without a word. 

Few streets are better than theirs. Monsters outnumbered humans. Logically there would be _someone_ on every street in the city. They don't find the culprits though, can't blame anyone for hiding immediately after coming-to, overwhelmed with shame as though any of them had a chance at fighting off the Commandant's influence. 

They leap-frog over one another, one taking lead, the other on defense, switching off at each intersection. They move like they have a mission, but there's only a nervous energy beneath their skin, their attitudes listless. What are they supposed to do? How do they come out of this?

“Hava?” someone calls, and it's not Arrel, and how did anyone uncover them so easily?

Hava's eyes narrow and Arrel moves before either of them can think better and Arrel's extended claws are at a familiar man's neck before the other figure is about to drag her away. Hava crosses in barely a blink, pouncing him to the ground before he can lay a finger on Arrel, nine tails on heat illusions.

“ _Don't_ ,” she snarls. 

“Okay,” Castiel says, hands out, and Hava's vision clears in confusion because how does she have an angel on his back unless he let her? She retreats and circles Arrel and the two of them rock on their feet, fast and ready. Sam and Castiel. Hunters. They should kill the kitsune pair on sight, so why? 

“It'll be fine,” Sam says, and he looks _sincere_ and his voice is _soft_ , but Hava just expects _trap trap trap_ , except this is Dean's family and she can't just... 

“It can't be fine,” Arrel says. 

“Apocalypse Michael is in Purgatory,” Sam continues. “Lucifer and Michael followed to take care of him.”

They're missing a very important detail and Hava thrives on details and _how dare they_ not tell her. “And Dean?” her voice quakes. 

Both Sam and Castiel flinch. 

“Repossessed,” Castiel says.

“We don't know how,” Sam says. 

Dean would never accept that monster into his body again, Hava thinks. She doesn't know how, either. 

“We've got to rally everyone,” Sam says. “And get a toll for the city. We need to get on it _fast_ , but I don't know where to start. Will you help us?” 

She shouldn't. She tried to be _more_ than what she was born as. She tried to do things for this city, for the world, but with just a snap she could be a _weapon_ and what was the point? What if they can't kill the Commandant? 

“Hava,” Arrel whispers, leaning her full body against her. Arrel, always the fighter of the two of them. Arrel, who she loved dearly. Arrel looks to Sam, considering. Hava stays very still. “You haven't killed anyone?” 

“No,” Sam answers. 

“Why?” Hava asks.

“None of you had a choice in this.” 

“It doesn't mean that we're not at fault,” Hava argues. 

“It doesn't work that way,” Castiel says. 

Hava sags. Arrel wraps arms around her. “Let's put structure back, hm?”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Well, I don't see the dragons managing it,” Arrel decides, “and Morris and Hayden and are knuckle-headed like me. I'd place my bets on you, every time, Hava.” 

Hava ducks her head, unsure whether to laugh or cry, but Arrel's right. “I'll see what I can do.”


	119. 119

**119**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Purgatory is dead silent for miles. No rustle of tree leaves, no stalking predators. 

There's nothing, no one, except for the cry of a hellhound. 

They close their rift. 

“Every single creature is honing on one thing,” Lucifer rumbles, putting a hand down to stroke along what Michael assumes to be Adaira, frowning and looking over their surroundings with a faint confusion. 

“Us soon, too,” Michael says. He squints up at the canopy, then, “I'm going to get a better look.” And takes flight to a treetop, scanning the horizon. East of them a meteor of ink-black darkness streaks across the sky and breaks into part of the woods.

Michael rejoins Lucifer. “I saw a Leviathan. I imagine that's where they are.”

“Adaira, go on ahead,” Lucifer tells the hellhound. “Don't get involved.” He looks to Michael. “Take us there. Get on the edges, if you can.” 

Michael nods, and takes hold of Lucifer, feeling out with his mind the destination—chaos, churning, the stench of blood saturating the air—Michael moves them, not even bothering to crouch down because two more beacons will be impossible to hide. 

The rocky ground is _littered_ with bodies atop bodies, limbs torn apart, stab wounds, eyes burnt out. In the center of it all is Dean's possessed body, soaked in blood, angel blade shining crimson, flailing and slicing at anything that comes near, screaming. 

It's the only time Michael has been able to be near his other self without being debilitated. 

_“He won't get to rule our lives anymore,”_ Adam says with confidence. 

Michael nods, hoping he's right.

The Leviathan that he had scouted gets two steps into the fray before a dragon jumps from a tree branch and splits it in two, taking flight once more and leaving the rest of the monsters. 

Lucifer cocks his head. “I don't want to _say_ I think that's Dean's doing, but I really think it might be.”

“Well he's not actively attacking my other self, so maybe he won't attack us. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Lucifer answers, though it looks like he wants to say anything else. “Go from behind. I'll thin the monsters out and play as distraction. You strike.”

“Lucifer?”

Lucifer shrugs. “He's an...” Lucifer fumbles. “ _Aberrant_ version of you. It only seems right.”

 _“That's sweet,”_ Adam says. Michael smiles and echoes, “Adam says you're sweet.”

“Oh _screw you_ ,” Lucifer snarls, and enters into the skirmish. 

Michael laughs, and shifts into the underbrush, circling around the edges, killing the few still hiding out this far back, waiting for their turn, his gaze locked on his other's back.

“ _LUCIFER_ ,” he hears the roar, “this is all _your_ fault!” 

Apocalypse Michael turns, blade lodging in the neck of a vetala, his full focus on Lucifer. And to Michael's _awe_ , golden-blue chains glisten for a moment between his other self's wrists. 

_“Dean,”_ Adam murmurs. 

“Come on, Mikey,” Lucifer mocks, “you said it yourself: I always break everything.” He spreads his hands. “I don't know why you'd think I'd change for you.”

“But you'd change for the _Winchester_.” 

Michael freezes and Adam may as well be pressing to the edges of their melded vessel to listen for that response. They watch as Lucifer purses his lips and blasts a shapeshifter with his will. “Nah,” he says after some thought. “If anything, I'd change for myself. You wouldn't know how to do that though, would you?”

 _“Never thought I'd be able to witness my brother grow up,”_ Michael tells Adam, wistful. 

_“You grew up too, you know,”_ Adam answers. _“I mean, we all did, but you guys were kind of a good eternity behind the rest of us.”_

Michael smiles and starts to slowly close the distance, matching his other's movement, watching as Apocalypse Michael steps onto the barrier of bodies at his feet, stumbling weakly towards Lucifer, but then pausing and Michael curses as his other turns rapidly to face him.

“Not again,” he whispers. “You won't get the drop on me. _Neither_ of you will. He may _think_ he can hold me, but—”

Dean's new dragon ally ascends from above, clawed feet singing into shoulders and toppling down, body halfway through his transformation as he breathes fire from a reptilian muzzle, blazing right beside Dean's head to keep him from moving. Wings beat high, and then he flaps, keeping afloat midair.

Apocalypse Michael fights, tumbles, gets caught on his back between too many bodies, and then Michael is face to face with him, too close for his other to get the freedom of movement he needs with his blade. 

“ _No_ ,” is all Michael tells him, stabbing his golden blade up into his counterpart's chest, light traveling along veins. Any remaining monsters nearby, save the dragon, shrink away—the ear-piercing ring overwhelming the air as he screams, back arching, wings darkened storm clouds, further blackening as they turn to ash, laying along the dirt and blood and bodies as Dean goes limp.

Michael withdraws, breathing hard, disturbed at feeling something so akin to _himself_ dying by his own hand. But to see his wings like that—so certainly _twisted_ , their purity turned, but not Fallen. He knew they weren't the same, knew it in his gut; but, now he could see it with his own eyes.

 _“You could never become him,”_ Adam says. He grins, lopsided, throwing an arm around Michael. _“I won't let it happen.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Michael answers, and he means it. 

The dragon lands opposite of Lucifer, bones snapping and collapsing in on themselves as he retakes his human form. “Well, that was exciting. I've done what was asked of me.” He looks around them. “I'd say you have maybe ten minutes of being in the clear while everyone cowers from the scent of one dead archangel. But two of you still look like a tasty snack, so much longer after that, folks will get brave again and come 'round.”

“I don't know why you helped,” Lucifer says, “but thank you.” 

“Kid invoked a dragon Pact. From an old lass that used to live here.”

“Kuehner,” Lucifer says.

The dragon snaps his fingers. “That's the one. Tell her Haruk says hi, if she's still kicking.”

“We will,” Michael answers. “And we're not staying long.” His attention jolts to the crackle of branches and a low whine moves along Michael's side and lingers somewhere around Dean's unmoving body and Michael can only imagine what this must look like to the stalwart hellhound, to see her charge in such a state. 

Lucifer kneels down and checks that Dean's still alive, arm out to ward the hellhound away, and then lets out a tired sigh of relief. When he looks back up, the dragon is gone. “Can you open the way back?” Lucifer asks them, whispering healing over the triangle-shaped mark left behind by the blade. “You have more control at it than I do.”

Michael nods, standing up and glancing around at the wreckage before recalling a pathway into existence. He turns back to Lucifer, reaching to grab one of Dean's arms, and together the brothers carry Dean across the threshold. 

The penthouse is empty, as it should be. Michael just hopes that Castiel and Sam weren't met with trouble. _“I'll contact them after you guys get Dean settled,”_ Adam says. 

They lay him out carefully on the bed in Dean's room and Michael goes to leave, but looks back at Lucifer hesitating. Michael frowns at him. “You can wait with him, you know.”

Lucifer shakes his head. “I don't know if I should.”

“I think it's a good idea.” He tilts his head as Adam mutters something and raises a brow. “And Adam thinks you'd be stupid not to.”

“ _Well_ ,” Lucifer replies airily, “if _Adam_ says.” 

Michael sighs exaggeratedly, but Lucifer still flops down into the leather arm chair in the room. “We'll figure out the state of things. I'll inform you if there's anything to panic about.” 

“Thank you.”

And Michael leaves him to it.


	120. 120

**120**

Tuesday, May 18, 2320

Sam nearly collapses as he pulls out his phone and stares at the message on the screen from Adam.

>>Apocalypse Michael is dead. Dean's alive. He's unconscious, but he's alive. 

Sam drags a hand over his mouth and thinks the world shifts, just a little.

“Sam?” Castiel asks.

“They brought him back,” Sam whispers, mystified. He—he really didn't think—because _Lucifer lies_ and despite _whatever_ was going on between the devil and his brother, he didn't trust either archangel to regard Dean as a priority. He wasn't even sure he trusted _Adam_. “They brought Dean back. He's alive—a-and that Michael's dead.”

Relief flushes through Castiel. “This is good news. If you want to go to your brother, I can continue here.”

Sam swears quietly. He _does_ want to go see Dean, desperately. But he also doesn't want Dean to wake up with the city, his _home_ , in disarray. Sam and Castiel have been doing what they could to touch base, toll the casualties not just in Kansas City, but the world. They had found Hava and Arrel earlier that night—Hava skittish, Arrel feral—and after soothing the kitsune pair enough that they could have a reasonable conversation, Hava went to work on the communication front.

The dragons were still missing in action, and that was worrying on more levels than just what damage they could have wrought. They were Dean's friends. Sam needed to find them. 

He forwards Adam's text to Hava. 

“No,” he says at last, “we have to keep at this.”

>>Thanks, Adam. Cas and I are still in the streets. Things aren't calm by any means. Let us know when Dean's awake?  
>>We're heading out to check in with Ruth, and then likely around the world. Lucifer's watching over Dean. 

Sam _wants_ to be surprised. He really does.

>>Okay. 

It's all he can handle. 

>>Tell us if you need any resources anywhere. Hava should be sending out a mass-text to all the Circle leaders soon.  
>>Okay, Sam. 

“Alright. Michael's got the world tour gig. … Lucifer's watching over Dean.”

Castiel looks to him, owlish. “And you're okay with that?” he asks, tone even.

“I... not really?” Sam says, tossing up his hands. “But why would he bring Dean back just to-to do something? Lucifer just—he _manipulates_ , always, and he plays his long games and he gets into peoples' heads! But—” He looks at Castiel, eyes pleading. “But in all the time I've known him, all the time he's _tortured_ me, I-I've never seen him as he had been in that room. Like... he was _genuine_. What causes the King of Lies to become that way?”

“I know you don't wish to hear it... but I think Dean has something to do with that.”

He stares down at his phone again. Hava, just as expected. He thinks she's already sent out her global message if this is what he's currently receiving. 

>>COMMANDANT CONFIRMED DEAD. SOS gathering at Howl at the Moon ASAP, all welcome, spread the word.

“I guess we have a meeting it get to,” Sam says, showing Castiel the message. 

“Do you wish to walk?” Castiel asks.

“We... probably should,” Sam admits. “Keep covering ground.”

They continue their own patrol at a reasonable speed on their way to Howl at the Moon. It takes them a good hour between Castiel pausing to heal the occasional person that they see either in the streets still alive, or risking to put their head out to see the sudden quietude. 

When they get to the bar, Sam is immediately ambushed. 

“Is your brother really still alive?” Morris demands, approaching Sam so fast that Castiel is stepping ahead as a barrier. 

It still weirds Sam out that these monsters care for Dean. 

“Yes,” he says, and that instant relief makes Sam so shockingly happy that he didn't kill any of the monsters they saw in the street after the fact. Maybe in another time he would have. But Dean... Dean had been in the exact same situation as they had; he lost control to Apocalypse Michael and enacted so much as his weapon. 

Sam can't judge and blame the monsters without also doing the same to his brother. 

“Has anyone heard from the dragons?” Sam asks.

Morris winces. “Yeah. They're not doing so well. Hayden's been trying to convince them to get their asses over here but they're refusing.”

“Tell them Dean would want them here,” Sam says. 

“Think he's tried that.”

“Fine, _I_ will, then,” Sam replies, and looks around for the skinwalker, who was in a back corner of the bar, phone to his ear, talking animatedly. Sam heads directly for him, waits until he has his attention, and then waves for the phone. Hayden stiffens, pausing mid-sentence, before handing the phone over. “Okay, look. My brother's unconscious and I don't know when he's waking up but he'd hate to find out when he does get up that you two are sunken in some overwhelming guilt complex.”

There's a long silence. 

“... Kid's alive?” Ligthart asks, quiet, like he also couldn't believe what anyone's said. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam says. “So find Kuehner and get over here so he wakes up to a vaguely-functioning city, alright?”

A sigh, and, “Alright.” The line cuts out.

Sam hands Hayden his phone back, grinning. “They're coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's Trying.


	121. 121

**121**

Wednesday, May 19, 2320

_“Why are you doing this? Aren't you an angel?”  
“Mm. Close. Archangel.”  
“Then—”  
“You're just caught in the cross-hairs. I have nothing against you, or even this world. I just need it all to burn. I need my Father—your 'God' to feel every pockmark and fissure.”_

_“Please, spare us!”  
“No. There's nothing worth it.”_

_There's screams. So many screams. World after world after world. Burnt to cinders, grace heavy in the air. One world after another, the dominoes of Michael's destruction—a direct attack on God._

_Every murdered angel, their grace absorbed._

_Screams and fire and—_

Dean gasps awake, body contorting from phantom, old wounds. He feels like he's been drowning for centuries and only just coming up for air, greedily choking it down as though he's about to go under again—

A hand wraps coldly around his arm and he's wrestling in immediate response, tangled by weights and the _screams_ are still in the back of his mind—

“ _Dean_.”

A staccato of sound breaks from Dean. He crumples and clenches his eyes closed, sweat a thick blanket over his skin. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. The hand starts to slide away from him and he slaps one of his own over it, holding it in place. “Don't,” he begs, and then loses consciousness again.


	122. 122

**122**

Wednesday, May 19, 2320

“Are you going to stay?” Gertie asks him. 

“I really shouldn't, Princess.”

She glares at him for the use of the nickname, and, well, probably his words. 

“Then you're an idiot,” she tell him.

“Whoa—hey now...”

“You belong here.”

“I'm a vampire among a werewolf pack. That don't sound right to anyone's ears.”

“And we're a werewolf pack openly living in a city of humans. My parents dreamed of that, just... not _how_ it came to be. And we killed a lot of those humans. _I_ killed a lot of those humans.”

He winces. The kid may not remember her three-hundred years under Apocalypse Michael's control, but she's definitely going to remember the twenty-minute massacre. 

“So,” she continues, hands on her hips, “it'd be really rude of you to leave us when we're still trying to cope with all of that.”

“Are you guilt-tripping me?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don't know, is it working?” 

“How do you know your parents even want me around?” Benny asks. He doesn't... care about the _rest_ of the pack. The Fitzgeralds are who matter. 

Gertie rolls her eyes in exasperation. “ _Trust me_ , they want you to stay,” she groans, “but they're not going to ask you, so I've got to be the one to do it. So. Are you going to stay?” she repeats.


	123. 123

**123**

Thursday, May 20, 2320

It takes four more false starts before Dean wakes up the fifth time without screaming. Michael made sure to throw open the doors of every scar in his mind when he reclaimed Dean—and Dean had thought he'd finally achieved some semblance of stability after all this time. 

He'd always wondered if it would have been better if Lucifer let Ligthart kill him that day. He'd always wonder about every monster's opinion thinking _'Michael is gone, not dead, not that we know of'_ and _'he could come back'_ and Dean _agreed_ with them. Loudly and frantic, he agreed. He was just as scared as the rest of them; he didn't want to drown again. 

But Dean can say for certainty that Michael is dead. He remembers the way Michael rounded on him like a cornered, rabid animal, almost sundering Dean's chain. It was different than that first time when the planet roiled and Michael raged. This was someone who had already been severely hurt once, and he didn't want to go through it again—except this time he wasn't being expelled; this time, it was death. Dean wasn't in control of his body but he could feel the piercing of the blade, just shy of his own soul. 

Dean rolls his head along his pillow and stares at Lucifer, the chair pulled from the corner to be near the bed, his hands folded in his lap and eyes closed in a sense of meditation. 

“Didn't take you for the sitting vigil by the bedside type,” Dean croaks. 

“Michael threatened to find a way to bind me to the room,” Lucifer answers, eyes still closed.

Dean laughs, not believing him one bit, until he starts coughing, sitting up and putting a hand to his chest.

Lucifer sighs dramatically and disappears with a flurry of wings. Dean's about to curse him out when he returns a moment later with a glass of water. 

Dean sips at it before saying, “My Guardian Angel,” with a _grin_.

“Screw you,” Lucifer says, sinking back into his claimed chair. 

“Nice to see you, too,” Dean says with some cheer.

“Nice to not hear you screaming for once.”

“Yeah, I mean, no wonder my throat's dry.”

“You've also been unconscious for three days.”

“Oh.” It felt like hours. And seconds. And centuries. “... You here the entire time?”

Lucifer's expression tightens like he doesn't want to answer.

Dean feels _light_. “You were, weren't you.”

“We'll hope Hell hasn't suffered in my prolonged absence,” is all Lucifer responds with. He gets up again. “The others should know you're not dead.”

“What, you didn't pass them in the kitchen?”

“Someone had to still keep the planet spinning.”

“Ugh. So tell them when they get home from 'work.' Or, you know, _find me my phone_ because everyone uses one except for you.”

“Michael does not use it.”

“Yeah, but _Adam_ does and they're a packaged deal, so it counts.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “Do you know where you left it last?”

Dean turns his head and glances at the empty surface of his bedside table. “Ehhh... living room?” He hadn't been carrying it when he went out, thinking, like an idiot, that if he had Adaira there wasn't as much a need. It wasn't exactly a _wrong_ thought, but he doesn't imagine he's going to make that mistake a second time. 

(He's kind of glad he didn't have it though; Apocalypse Michael probably would have ditched it same as he did with Dean's bone knife.)

Lucifer stares at him. Dean shrugs. “I mean, I'd say the kitchen, but you were already there.” Lucifer continues to stare at him. Dean gestures helplessly. “ _Fine_. I'll get it.” And starts to move. Lucifer's eyes narrow and he vanishes. “Possessed and then unconscious for three days and still can't get a break,” Dean mumbles. 

It takes longer than the water did. Dean imagines Lucifer cursing out the ceiling. He thinks, a bit wistfully, of the forest. _'If anything, I'd change for myself.'_ Smiles a little crookedly and doesn't give Lucifer shit when he pops back and tosses his phone on the bed. Dean sends out a group text:

>>hi guys I'm not dead though might sleep for real soon

He lays back down and stretches out. Lucifer's settled once more. Dean's... tired. 

“Hey?” he prompts, a little quieter.

“Mm?”

“... Is my soul still intact?”

“Of course it is.”

“Lucifer.”

“It isn't a _question_ ,” Lucifer answers, almost a growl. 

“He stormed in and kicked open all the doors of my head,” Dean murmurs. 

“Fine,” Lucifer snaps, leaning forward and crooking his hand, “come here.”

Dean sits up again and Lucifer presses pointer and middle finger to Dean's forehead, looking inwards, humming to himself as he does his inspection, and then he moves away. 

“It was a ragged mess when I first found you,” Lucifer explains to him—he'd never told Dean the severity of the damage. “You shouldn't have, really, been still a functioning being. But, Winchester stubbornness, I suppose.”

He's... surprised Lucifer downplayed it back then. “And now?”

“There's still... scars. There will always be scars, dating back to your mother's death. But there's healing. Jack's power, it's smoothed the roughness, the constant bleeding. You did that, too. The power wasn't just a 'fix.' You wouldn't have started healing unless you _chose_ to.”

Dean nods. Anything else he might have said is interrupted by Cas and Sam's arrival, and little by little the rest trickle in. Adam and Michael had been the most brief—they were still hitting as much of the world as they could, but they assured him that Ruth was in one piece. 

He's surprised that Benny, Garth and Bess make an appearance, though he'd known that Benny was _back_ in the city, but the three of them showing up together was odd. He's even more surprised that Ligthart and Kuehner and Priya show. Sam had, apparently, been at (another) Emergency Circle meeting when he got Dean's text. They came with well-wishes from other members, an overflow of concern, and the promise that they'd all check he was alive for themselves when they weren't trying to hold everything together. 

(Hava was leading the charge. Morris and Hayden had “stepped up” due to the dragons being... less than stellar, from what Dean could tell just by looking at them. 

He could one-hundred percent relate.)

“I didn't say 'yes,'” he tells some of them, because it's so damn important to him that someone knows. That he didn't welcome that nightmare back to them. “He said it didn't matter. I couldn't do anything to stop him from taking control again.”

Dean eventually has to shoo everyone back out, arguing that he needs _actual_ sleep. He stares at Lucifer's back, the last one leaving. “ _Dude_ ,” he says to him. “You'd better check on Hell before you watch me sleep; I don't want to wake up to demons suddenly in the street.”

Lucifer looks at him over his shoulder. “What makes you think I'll be back?”

Dean rolls and drags the blanket up to his chin. “Don't even try to act like you won't!” he calls.

He hears Lucifer huff, and then the door close.

He knows Lucifer will be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost tagged this fic with "Lucifer as a Guardian Angel" but I was like nah I wanna have fun with that line lmfao. So it's why I went with "Lucifer didn't ask to be in this position."


	124. 124

**124**

Friday, May 21, 2320

After Lucifer's last “business trip” when he was out of Hell for ten days Earth-time, Lucifer commanded his demons to not come look for him again. Just keep working. Don't... don't show _concern_ for their Creator. It's only been five days Earth-time but the demons are still a frazzled mess that only mirrors Lucifer's tremulous emotions and he thinks it isn't _their_ worry, but his influence an oppressive push into Hell.

He'd like to say now that he notices that could be a problem that he could suppress it.

But he thinks noticing only makes it _worse_ , bad enough that a pack of hellhounds skulk between him and the demons, like they have to protect _them_ from _Lucifer_. 

“Still alive, thanks for asking!” he yells at them, and the hellhounds growl in warning and Lucifer debates killing them all, but they're the most competent part of the realm and so what if they're choosing Lucifer's children over him. _So what_ that he should have expected that they'd imprint on their charges if left alone long enough; it happened with Dean and Adaira, it happened with Ruth and Conall. 

He shouldn't have come here, he realizes. He wears the title of King of Hell as a mantle but he thinks being here, now, he's wearing _Hell_ as a mantle, the domain coalescing in his veins. The ancient, _original_ foundation that he had created so long ago _remembering_ itself and coming alive under Lucifer's disorganized thoughts and Lucifer had _wanted_ this. He had wanted that old powerhouse of his realm. Feeling it quiver at his fingertips when he had been in the past was a blessing. Everything he could want.

His demons are soul accountants and his hellhounds are guard dogs and Lucifer _doesn't want_ the old Hell back in its fullest. 

He has to get out of here. He has to disconnect himself from this. 

“Keep working,” he snarls, and he takes off as quickly as he had appeared. 

Michael can deal with Hell.


	125. 125

**125**

Sunday, May 23, 2320

Michael and Adam are dealing with the _rest of the world_ , thanks. 

Michael had left Adam with Ruth and checked on Heaven and the influx of souls. He wanted to scream, but what good would it do? They weren't reduced to square one but he once again had halls clouded by the wayward additions, no place for them to slot in because Michael hadn't prepared Heaven for a _massacre_. 

Well. Heaven's halls had maintained three-hundred years packed with souls in the open. They could handle a couple of days. 

He rejoins Adam and looks out his eyes at a mess of a human that is the prophet, the older woman seeming no more than a child in that moment. Michael takes in their surroundings. Someone's apartment and while no one is directly in the room with Ruth, Michael can feel the crawling sensation of _monster_ just beyond the entry door. He wonders if she demanded they stay away from her, or if the monster chose to on their own. 

_“I think monsters are more scared about what happened than the humans are,”_ Adam says. 

_“To have their control taken once more when they thought it impossible? I can't blame them. It must be worse than it was the first time. Most didn't understand the weight of it before,”_ Michael replies.

_“Now they've all gone through it and know what it means,”_ Adam finishes. 

Michael nods. 

“Ruth,” Michael says, stepping into control and tilting his head. Adam was sitting across from her. “Do you wish to be taken somewhere?” 

She shakes her head. “I need to apologize to him,” she whispers. “Is he still alive?”

Michael frowns. 

_“I think she means Dean,”_ Adam says.

_“Why would she have to apologize to him?”_

_“I don't know.”_.

“Who?” Michael asks. 

She looks up. “Dean,” she answers. 

Even hearing it from her, too, Michael doesn't understand. “Yes, he is.”

Her shoulders slump. “Thank goodness.”

“Did you... do something to him?”

_“Michael,”_ Adam berates. 

She stays silent, and then she murmurs, “I'll only tell him.”

“Okay. He might be immobile for awhile.”

“I can wait.” She draws in a breath. “Can you take me to India?”

“Of course,” Michael agrees. He knows her usual go-to location. He helps her stand. 

“Baran!” she calls loudly. They hear a scuffle at the door and then it opens and there's a slim, bloodied figure standing there. Ruth smiles. “I'm going. Thank you for guarding the room.”

“After what happened,” they say, “it's the least I could do.”

Michael wonders about that, but he doesn't ask. He flies.


	126. 126

**126**

Friday, May 28, 2320

“Sam, I'm going to the meeting,” Dean gripes, “I've been on bed rest too long.”

“I know it's a short walk, Dean, but are you _sure_?”

“I'm not walking.” He points at Lucifer, who had been leaning besides the fireplace, eyes closed and not involving himself in their conversation. Lucifer had taken a few days longer to come back than Dean had honestly expected him to, and it left something unsettled in his gut. He was acting weird. Dean assumed it had something to do with the fight in Purgatory, but Lucifer was adamantly Not Talking. “He's taking me.” 

Sam looks to Lucifer, who hasn't reacted to Dean's declaration. 

Dean makes a frustrated sound. “Hey! Earth to Lucifer!” he snaps. “Can you wing me to Howl at the Moon or not?” The walk is hardly a concern to Dean. Ten minutes. But that's ten minutes of potentially running into a few humans that were aware that he probably had something to do with the monsters going apeshit again. Maybe. It's entirely possible that they didn't even consider him. Wouldn't that be nice?

Still. He's not ready for _that_.

Lucifer blinks his eyes open and looks to Dean. “Fine,” is all he says. 

_Fine_ , he says, like he isn't driving Dean mad. 

“You want a ride, Sammy?” Dean asks.

“... No,” Sam answers carefully, glancing between the two of them, “I'm going to pass tonight. I need to catch up on sleep. It's been a lot.”

“Right.” Dean's pretty sure his brother is lying, but he doesn't care. 

He steps up to Lucifer and feels the disorienting shift of the flight. Dean moves towards the entrance, but Lucifer doesn't follow. Dean half turns, looking at the devil over his shoulder. It's been so long since Lucifer kept himself this distant from Dean and there's only one reason Dean can think of for it, and it _hurts_.

“You said I wasn't him,” Dean accuses. “That I wasn't Michael.” He quakes. “Was that a lie?” 

Lucifer's expression twists and Dean thinks it's the most emotion he's seen on him since he returned from Hell. 

“Screw you,” Lucifer spits. 

Dean laughs. This was Apocalypse Michael's parting shot, wasn't it? Taking the one thing Dean thought he had a chance at away from him, huh?

He pivots 'round to face Lucifer and numbness settles over him. “So that's it, isn't it? Just nice words. Michael slides into his vessel and that's all I'll ever be, even to _you_.” 

Lucifer approaches Dean, anger flashing across his face until it smooths away into blankness. “You're an idiot,” he tells Dean. “You—” _Something_ that Dean can't interpret skitters in place of the blankness, there and gone again, and Dean could kill him. Whatever he keeps shutting off, shutting _out_. 

Lucifer's never seen him as Michael and that was the one thing Dean could rely on, the one thing that kept him afloat, and if he doesn't have _that_ —well, maybe Lucifer finally did slide into this era. Lucky him. It was a pipe dream, really, that he wouldn't. That he'd stay on the outside with Dean, even if that wasn't what Dean wanted a year ago. 

“... _Dean_ ,” Lucifer's saying, sounding like it wasn't the first time, but Dean can't. 

“Fuck off,” he sneers, and retreats into Howl at the Moon. He'll get Ligthart to “walk him home.” Ligthart's built like a tank that anyone will see coming from a mile away. If they shy away from him, they'll never see Dean following at his heels. 

He knows that there are many happy faces seeing him walk in—such a stark difference to those first months—but Dean doesn't register any of them.


	127. 127

**127**

Thursday, June 3, 2320

Dean has finally graced the streets with his presence; in the daytime, even. He makes his way back to his bookstore and is terrified it might have been shutdown in the disaster, but the Open sign greets him and he slips in, lingering in the doorway instead of going in like he had ever been welcome.

There's another clerk at the register and Dean's heart sinks. There's always been the one woman; he never did understand if she was the owner and the sole employee. She never spoke much to him, never gave him her name. Dean knew there would be casualties of people that even he, a recluse, knew. Michael may have even targeted them on _purpose_ , just as before. 

“Oh,” there's a gasp. 

Dean looks up. 

She rounds the corner of the stacks, looking between him and the clerk at the register, who doesn't have the terror that Dean would expect him to wear.

Dean waits for a dam to break. 

“I,” she starts, “I have something you'd like.”

The clerk at the register shares the same stunned expression that Dean does; neither of them know what just happened, but Dean walks out with a new journal. He wears the same confusion until he gets home and the penthouse is still devoid of a coward that hasn't come back. The quiet is _getting_ to him. Michael and Adam haven't been home either, still flying the globe in a way they never did before. Cas, oddly opposite of Michael, has been in Heaven. 

Dean _assumes_ Lucifer has been in Hell, but the devil can go fuck himself. 

“Dean,” Sam sighs from where he's cooking lunch up. “You've gotta... stop this.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Dean yells, slamming the entry door closed and throwing the journal onto the coffee table as he steps in, a flurry of movement. 

“Dean, you're a car crash waiting to happen.”

He is _not_. “I'm awesome, thanks,” Dean snaps. 

“You're _kidding_ yourself, Dean!” 

“Well, gee, Sam, I don't know if you've forgotten, but I was ganked by an archangel last month!” 

“And if that was the problem I'd believe you,” Sam argues, “but I know it's not!” 

Dean shoots his brother a warning look. Back off if you know what's good for you. 

Sam levels back his I'm Done With You Dean look. “I can't believe _I'm_ the one saying this, but just reach out to him, Dean. This is... you're losing your mind.”

“I told you—”

“That you don't know what I'm talking about, right. How about I spell it out, then: Lucifer.”

Dean sucks in a breath. Of all the people he expected to not _go_ there, it was Sam. His brother did everything he could to separate himself from any conversation that might have to do with Dean and Lucifer. 

(It's been days and the part of Dean that isn't angry wants to know what Lucifer would have said if Dean didn't blow him off.)

Dean's so tired.

“He doesn't use a phone and I'm not sending Adaira after him,” Dean says. 

“So pray,” Sam says dully. 

“I can't pray to Lucifer,” Dean answers immediately. 

“Come _on_ , Dean. This is—this is _stupid_. I thought watching you two get along was bad but watching you two _not_ is so much worse. I don't know what happened, and I don't _want_ to know, but you two need to figure it out. So just pray to him and ask him to come back!”

Dean whirls around in trepidation. “I can't, Sam!” he repeats loudly. “He won't answer it! I know he won't. Not after,” his voice trips, “not after the last time.”

“Dean, what—”

“Forget it,” Dean says. He spins back for the living room and grabs his journal before heading for his room. “Just forget it.”


	128. 128

**128**

Saturday, June 5, 2320

“Lucifer... I really hope you're listening out there. Dean doesn't think you'll answer him if he tries. Said something about a 'last time,' whatever that means, but you probably know. I told Dean I couldn't believe I was doing this... Any of this. We both know I didn't want you here. I want to say I still don't, but... Dean's not okay and I guess when you're around I can recognize him. I didn't think your absence would make a difference. Why _you_? 

“But I also told Cas once that I wasn't going to break apart Dean's support group and you're a big part of that, whether or not I like it. So look, I don't know how you go from nearly killing yourself in order to save Dean to avoiding him, but he needs you here. Maybe you have your own shit to work through. I get it. I've been there. But if he's better with you around I have this funny feeling the reverse is true. Just... just think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's Trying: Electric Boogaloo.


	129. 129

**129**

Tuesday, June 8, 2320

“The fuck are you doing here,” Dean growls darkly. He's curled up in the chair by the window, reading his newest journal. He doesn't even look at Lucifer. 

“Apparently you've grown pathetic and your brother begged me to come check on you,” Lucifer answers snidely. 

Dean snaps the journal closed and presses his head into it. 

“Seems he's right,” Lucifer continues. 

Dean would usually try to treat books with more care. 

Usually.

However, he throws his journal at Lucifer. Lucifer lets it hit him but keeps it from falling to the floor and messing with the spine and places it safely to Dean's bed. 

Dammit. Dean was hoping maybe his feelings for Lucifer could've decided to take a dip if he tried to force them away hard enough but they're still going strong. 

He crosses his arms and doesn't care if he looks petulant. “I donno what Sammy said to you, but I don't need you here.” Want, sure. Need, no. “If you can't even stand to look at me like normal, then you can stay gone. End of story.”

Lucifer drops his head in both his hands. “Dean, Michael has nothing to do with this.” 

Dean stands out of his chair. “You know, somehow I don't believe you, because you've never had any issue before Michael had me. It's only after you're...” Dean gestures at him. 

“You didn't have a problem trusting my word before,” Lucifer says, jaw clenched. 

“I didn't, yeah,” Dean agrees. 

“So why not trust it _now_?” Lucifer demands, dropping his hands from his head, a static at his feet. 

Dean thinks he might believe him. That this isn't about Michael. 

But then that leaves a whole _other_ problem. 

“Where've you been?” Dean asks instead of answering. “Hell?”

Lucifer turns away, restless. “Hell and I are taking some time apart—don't _worry_ , the demons will stay contained.”

Dean frowns. “What, you had a breakup with Hell?”

“Something like that,” Lucifer says darkly.

“Lucifer.” 

That unchecked power moves with Lucifer and Dean realizes that the bindings must still be gone and Lucifer might not be _able_ to control it anymore, that he might not remember _how_. 

“What do you _want_ , Dean?” Lucifer asks. Pleads, Dean thinks.

Dean squares his shoulders. “I want you to look me dead in the eye and tell me all this weird behavior of yours lately isn't because Michael wore me to try and kill you.” 

Lucifer doesn't even pause. He faces Dean, meets his determined gaze, and says, “I told you: you are not the same.” 

“So _why_?” 

And Lucifer immediately turns away. 

Dean's entire life could be summed up in a flowchart of Bad Decisions, with the ones where he put no thought into bolded and highlighted. But if he takes away the problem of Michael, then he thinks—hopes—there's only one option left.

And maybe, sometimes, he just needs to throw caution to the wind and pray. 

He bends around into Lucifer's line of sight. “You gonna stop being a coward and kiss me?” Dean asks with a show of confidence that he definitely doesn't feel.

 _'Coward'_ seems to strike a chord with Lucifer, which is what Dean had intended. “Oh, I'm the coward?” Lucifer lulls, unreadable as he walks a circle around Dean, eyes sizing him up. 

It's a challenge. Dean's drawn them into a dance and Lucifer hasn't backed down—isn't _going_ to be the one to back down. Dean thinks about Lucifer's distance again, how it got worse after Dean was awake—Dean was _safe_. 

They're a real mess, aren't they? 

“I mean _I_ sure thought you were gonna kiss me ages ago, but hey.” Dean shrugs. He remembers an alleyway and Lucifer unbearably close, and he remembers that reaction to Dean's _'you_ don't _need me anymore'_ comment. “Go all Guardian Angel on a guy, but leave me disappointed.”

Lucifer makes a face, and it's so strikingly familiar that Dean could laugh; he had feared he lost Lucifer entirely. “You _must_ stop calling me that,” Lucifer says, fondness slipping in past everything he was struggling to keep from Dean, “those were _Michael's_ words.”

“Michael also said you didn't care about me,” Dean says, far too casually. “But I do wonder.”

Lucifer closes the distance, eyes burning and power alive around him and no longer restrained by his bindings. The lights flicker, and outside thunder rumbles.

Dean doesn't flinch, he just looks at Lucifer with a cocky, Winchester Brand smile. 

Lucifer kisses him, full of the turbulence of the brewing storm, the static of his grace. Dean only responds in kind, hands reaching around to clasp the back of Lucifer's neck, pulling him closer. 

“ _You_ ,” Lucifer says, ghosted breaths and teeth dragging along Dean's jaw, “got under my skin, Dean Winchester. Drive me up the _wall_.”

“You say the nicest things,” Dean answers, pressing fingers into skin and savoring the close contact of another person when he's had nothing but the few hugs in _centuries_ and he thinks he forced himself to get used to it. To shut off that part of him that _longed_ for _something_ —anything. He fists a hand into Lucifer's shirt and walks himself backwards towards his bed, pulling Lucifer with him. “Adaira, you sweet, sweet pup, if you're here _please_ go away for a bit.”

He hears an answering sound.

“I have no idea if that means 'screw you' or 'yeah fine.'” 

Lucifer ducks his head, a soft laugh on his lips and Dean could drink that in. He's fucking _missed_ Lucifer and he was only gone for a few days, but that uncertainty gutted him. “She _has_ left.” He grins. “She will listen to you as long as it isn't something that will endanger your safety. Always has.”

“... Wait, seriously?”

Lucifer shrugs. “I mean, I suppose she also wouldn't play 'fetch.'”

“Unless it's fetching you.”

Lucifer frowns, and there's a rigidity to his movements, gaze distant, and this is what Dean was trying to get him _out_ from. “Yes,” he answers. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean says sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Lucifer's face. “I'm okay.”

“You don't have nine lives, Dean.” 

“I bet I passed nine lives a long time ago, but I'm a bit more resilient than I used to be. You know that.” Had Dean been without Jack's power, there would have been _so_ many times his body would have just given up, before Adaira had time to retrieve Lucifer. “Come on,” Dean says, “don't go all brooding on me, okay?”

Lucifer seems like he wants to argue which is the opposite of what Dean would prefer. He should have understood it sooner, but of the two of them it was always _Dean_ to shut everyone and the world out. It was new seeing it from Lucifer, and Dean has a whole insight now on what he's put Adam through all this time. 

He gives Lucifer another tug, but then Lucifer is staring beyond Dean, and Dean looks back, self-conscious, at his bed. “... What?”

“If that bed is Michael's—”

Dean makes a face of disgust. “Ugh. First off: gross, you chaotic bastard; second: why would Michael even _have_ a bed? It's like... one of the _very few things_ that belong to me in this _city_. I asked the dragons to help me get it up here after I was done sleeping on the couch. Satisfied?”

“Oh, yes,” Lucifer murmurs, crowding into Dean's space and knocking the back of his knees into the edge of the bed. 

Dean kisses him again, tongue tracing over the chill before he lets himself fall, taking Lucifer down with him. He hooks an arm around Lucifer, tugs, and rolls, toppling him with ease only because Lucifer _lets_ him, and isn't that a thrill. The bindings are gone, Lucifer's got the freedom he's desperately been seeking since his resurrection, but he's still _here_. 

His voice hitches and he pulls his mouth from Lucifer, head pressing atop his chest as he fights to catch his breath. 

“Dean?” Lucifer questions, worried.

“You're fine,” Dean rushes to say. “It's—fuck, it's been awhile,” he says, wrecked, like he's just handing over another weakness to Lucifer. He feels fingers reach up and card through his hair and he shudders. 

“If you think,” Lucifer murmurs, but there's a sharpness to it that cuts through Dean's churning shame, “that I don't know what it's like...” He circles his hand from Dean's hair to nudge his chin up to meet Lucifer's gaze. “I understand.” 

In a Cage more than out of it, Dean remembers. 

He nods.

“Although,” Lucifer says, grazing nails under Dean's shirt, eyes burning with a different show of power than when he approached Dean before, and there's a seriousness lurking in them, “I'd hardly want to go too fast for you.”

“I don't even want to know how long we've been dancing around each other,” Dean growls, pressing against the touch, “ _forget_ being slow.” 

Lucifer shifts, flipping their positions with a snap of wings. “Well then,” he says casually, and Dean pushes up into him, “ _usually_ the act of touching a soul would elicit nothing but pain. However, you're more than just soul now, aren't you?” 

Dean would ask what he means by that, but then he feels the moment a metaphysical hand cradles that same _soul_ , touch gentle, feather-light, brushing over the myriad of scars. Dean writhes beneath Lucifer, whispering his name roughly, and then Lucifer's grace dips down to meet with him—wings, though Dean can't see them, he feels them—mantle and wrap around and _through_ Dean. 

“ _Luc_ —” Dean breaks off with a gasp.

“Mmm,” Lucifer murmurs, licking a stripe along Dean's collarbone.

“You're,” Dean tries, “being terribly unfair.”

“Oh?” 

But Dean's a fast learner, and if he closes his eyes and splays his hand along Lucifer's chest and _focuses_ , he can see a mirror of soul—or rather, being—singing along with the universe. Tentatively, Dean reaches _in_. To touch, similarly to the way Lucifer is caressing his soul. 

He hears Lucifer stop breathing.

“Shit,” Dean says. A moment, a stutter, and then Lucifer's mouth is on his again, and when Dean gets a moment to speak, he asks, “So... not going to kill you?”

“Kill me, maybe,” Lucifer rasps, “but not how you'd predict.”

“Well you started it.”

“ _Dean_.”

And Dean's not sure if that's a moan of irritation or pleasure, but he reaches back out again to stroke his fingertips along Lucifer's very essence, and the lines between him and Lucifer are getting harder to tell apart, both to his senses and his eyes. 

It's overwhelming—the sensation everywhere. He thinks he can read Lucifer's thoughts, splotches of watercolors on a crystal-clear sky. He breathes _Hell_ before he breathes _Heaven_ , but it isn't Michael throwing him at the Rack—it's—it's _balance_. 

Dean laughs. Lucifer is balance and Dean thinks he might be the only one that could ever understand that, that gets to ride the wave and when it capsizes Dean's soul mixes into the expanse, gasping and clutching at Lucifer with an arm slung around his back until they're both exhausted and the tides recede, essence and soul rippling back to being. 

He hears the retreating high-pitched tone slowly fade just as the lights in the room blow. 

Dean is very still. “... Lucifer tell me that was you before I start panicking.”

“... Mm, it would seem so. A _team effort_ , mind you.”

Dean's searching through the fog of his satiated mind and grabs at Lucifer, pulling himself closer to the devil and burying in. “ _Nice_ ,” he muffles, ignoring Lucifer's chuckle, feeling fingers at the back of his neck. “Real subtle.” 

“Well, if you were going for _subtlety_ ,” Lucifer starts. 

“I think I'm done trying to hide from this city,” Dean admits, and it feels concrete, putting it out there. Lucifer had said his soul wouldn't have started to heal if he didn't chose it. He spent so long in fear of himself, fear of the city, fear of the repercussions. He's been grasping at so much and holding onto nothing, always looking over his shoulder, always expecting a whisper of Michael until it really did happen.

But Michael's dead. 

And Dean's _finally_ trying to hold onto something. 

He doesn't know how long it takes to surface again from that fog, a thumb brushing over Lucifer's scarred palm where the archangel blade went through it. “I think it should go without saying since you saw into my soul,” Dean murmurs, “and it's unfair that Michael stole it from me before I got to tell you.” He hesitates, then says in an almost-steady voice, “but you deserve to know that I'm kind of in love with you.”

“Yes,” Lucifer says just as soft, “I did get that impression.”

“Dick.”

“I tried to kill you once,” Lucifer tells him in response, pressing his forehead into Dean's and staring down into his eyes.

“You tried to kill me _a lot_.”

“No... I don't mean... This was different. This was... I went back in time to kill you.”

Dean frowns. “Huh?”

“You don't remember; I made certain you wouldn't.” Lucifer matches Dean's expression. “It was... well. Christmas.”

It was _Christmas_? Lucifer left while Dean was spiraling into mental disarray to try and _kill him_? (If it had worked, at the time Dean would have thanked him—if he had somehow known it had happened, anyway.) 

Lucifer continues, “I thought if I killed you, well, no more true vessel. Same as you believed. But I couldn't do it.”

“... Why?”

Lucifer runs his knuckles along Dean's chin. “Perhaps, some part of me had already started to grow attached.” He sits back, perched on Dean's chest. “ _But_ ,” he says a little lighter, “then I also realized Fate had her teeth in you and it would likely collapse the timeline if I killed you, anyway.”

“Oh, well, there's that. Stupid prophecy.”

“When you wanted us to go and kill you, that's why I knew we couldn't.” 

“Why'd you chose then to go back, anyway?” Dean asks, unsure if he really wanted to know.

Lucifer tilts his head, staring out the windows. “I was angry,” he says, sounding confused. “I don't know why. Well—I _knew_. I was angry about why I was angry.”

“Lucifer...” Dean murmurs. 

Lucifer falls back down alongside Dean, laid out on his back, an arm over his face. “You'd lied to me. By omission, but...” 

“But it was the first time I had lied to you in almost two months.”

Lucifer shifts his arm to squint at Dean.

“I knew,” Dean says. “I wasn't convinced you realized at that point. That you'd stopped lying to me, too.” Dean turns his head. “I should have told you. About the anniversary.” 

“No, you shouldn't have. You had no reason to.”

“I did though. You've always been the one that's been able to get me out of things. _You're_ the one that got me out of it a _month later_. You kept me grounded more than Adam could, even in the very beginning. It didn't matter _how_ you interacted with me or—just _that_ made all the difference, Lucifer.”

Lucifer props himself up on an elbow to stare down at him for a long moment. Dean just stares back, wondering if he said something too weird even for Lucifer. Then, Lucifer smiles. “I wonder, could you read me, as I read you?”

Oh.

“What, you mean the all-consuming proclamation of love echoing back?” Dean asks, remembering the flow of not-quite-thoughts but emotions and color that exploded from himself and found a matched set responding in kind, redoubled and brilliant. “Naaaaaah, couldn't tell at _all_.”

Lucifer shakes his head and rests atop Dean. “Sometimes I do wonder _why_.”

“My charisma is _great_.”

“That's not it.”

“Hm.”

“You know everything that I am, and ever was,” Lucifer says. “And you've _never_ backed down from that. Even when I give you a walking invitation to.” Dean remembers Lucifer at Howl at the Moon. He remembers the brewing storm earlier, the tumult of power. That last _get out now_ before the break. “Against my better judgment, sanity, ah, _livelihood_ , I do love you.”

“High praise,” Dean says, but it's overflowing with honesty. He means it. He hadn't expected Lucifer to say anything. He didn't _need_ Lucifer to say anything; Dean already knew. He swallows. “If you're staying I... got a lot of nightmares.”

“I'm aware,” Lucifer admits. Then, “ _Adaira_ is aware.”

That... Dean frowns. “... Is that why you're always here in the mornings?” 

Lucifer shrugs, awkward from his position. He says instead, “Lucky you, I don't sleep. So you can hardly keep me awake.” 

“Right. Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the only smut I can write is soulsex.


	130. 130

**130**

Wednesday, June 9, 2320

Adam is smirking at Dean over a bowl of cereal when Dean gets up sometime before dawn, only lit by the glow of his phone laying on the counter. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean gripes. “I thought you _slept_?”

He hadn't even known Adam was going to be back anytime soon. If Dean wasn't so freaked out, he'd be relieved to see his brother. 

“Sometimes,” Adam says cheerily. 

“Well, this,” he waves at Adam mostly sitting in complete darkness, “is just creepy.”

“Well,” Adam echoes, “it's _funny_ , but the power is out in a very large portion of the city.”

“Oh.”

“Michael says it was radial,” Adam continues, “with this build as the center. Weird, right?” he says the last part around a spoonful of cereal.

“Huh. Yeah. Super weird.”

Adam stares at him.

Dean stares back.

Adam points his spoon at him. “Maybe learn some restraint.”

Dean... flails. “You know what!” he shouts, gesturing before cursing archangels and stomping into the kitchen to get his own bowl of cereal. Adam lets him grumble and cause a fuss until he's sitting across from him at the island. “You're speaking from experience, aren't you?” Dean asks after a few bites, staring down at his bowl. 

Adam shrugs. 

“I kinda wondered sometimes how you two worked.” Dean cringes at his own wording. This shit's hard enough for _himself_ let alone other people. “I mean don't get me wrong—whatever makes you happy. I just. You know. The vessel-angel relationship always seems awful for everyone. But you two love each other.”

Adam smiles. “Yeah.”

“I know it was terrible—the whole... Cage thing,” he starts, and it comes out as a garbled mess, but anytime Dean's tried to have to this conversation, Adam or Michael always cut him off. Adam doesn't interrupt him. “And I don't expect you to ever forgive us for... leaving you there. I'm sorry. That it happened. But I _am_ glad that Michael had you. To teach him, all about humanity and, hell, just how to be a good _person_.” And get that stick out of his ass, Dean doesn't say, but he thinks Michael knows. 

“I'm glad we had each other, too,” Adam says. 

He doesn't forgive Dean, and Dean is grateful for that; it would have felt fake and empty.

Dean winces when the lights flicker back on. “'lo to having electricians still. Though I need new light bulbs for my room.” He sighs, drinks up the milk left in the bowl, then sets it down and pushes it away from him. “I'm going back to bed.”

“Don't have too much fun.”

Dean's gut reaction is to tell him off, but he holds it in and pauses, looking back over at Adam before grinning, “Yeah, you too.”

Lucifer hadn't left while Dean decided to get himself a pre-dawn snack, and that fills Dean with more warmth than he'd ever admit. He burrows himself back under the covers and into Lucifer after he throws an arm over Dean. 

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “but now I know way more about our brothers' sex life than I am comfortable with.”

And Dean finds himself lulled back to sleep by Lucifer laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Brothers_.
> 
> (It's a real shitty apology but... Dean. And Dean not actually expecting to be allowed to _get into it_ for once.)


	131. 131

**131**

Thursday, June 10, 2320

“Dean, are you sleeping with Lucifer?”

“Bite me, Sam.”

“That's not an answer.”

Dean gives him the finger. “None of your business.”

Sam rolls his eyes. He literally prayed to Lucifer on Dean's behalf. It may not be his business, but he'd like to know if all their bullshit got sorted out and things could go back to—dare he say it— _normal_. 

(He still shudders to think that Lucifer playing an active, non-villain role in their lives is normal, but, well, it's 2320.)

“I get the feeling that means you are.”

“So what if I am?!”

“I'm... happy for you, I guess? Like, man, any reservations I might have for him still... he literally saved your life. … And mine.”

“You have no idea how many times he's saved my life, Sammy. And I couldn't explain him and I to you if I tried.”

“Please, don't try. I'm begging you, Dean. I'll deal with him being around, but _don't_ explain it to me.”

Dean grins easily. “Deal.”


	132. 132

**132**

Friday, June 25, 2320

“I wonder if whoever sent these is wishing they didn't now,” Hava says to Dean, holding out a large off-white envelope, already opened. Dean accepts it even though he thinks he already knows what it is and he can't tell if he should feel pleased or haunted. 

The meetings have been _trying_ to settle into a sense of normalcy, but the changes are hard to shake. Morris and Hayden have still taken charge, though the pair of dragons haven't tried to disappear. He thinks they want to. Dean's walked some of the city and there are chunks taken out of buildings, spots of melted steel. The bodies may be cleaned up but Dean knows. 

Yet it means a _lot_ to him that they can't just shrug off the damage and the deaths; before all this, hundreds of years ago, he knows they would've. What was the lives of humans other than obstacles and a source of food? 

Everyone will feel this impact; in this city, anyway. Dean can't say for certain about the cities where monsters were fighting back against monster. He'll have to ask Ruth sometime. 

Arrel has been a constant at the meetings. So has Priya, and Dean really thought she _never_ would take up politics. There are other new faces that he doesn't know very well, but thinks they're like Priya. The patrols that report to members of the Circle, but never wanting to be more involved until now.

Dean pulls out the stack of papers from the envelope only enough so that he can thumb through the tops of them. Six reports, years: 2312, 2311, 2310, 2299, 2280, 2272. It's more to work with, Dean thinks. 

“I guess we'll have to send something else out so that whoever got these to us doesn't have regrets,” he says. He nods to her. “Thanks, Hava.” He holds onto them as he goes to corner Kuehner; he'd been waiting until she found a table and had a drink in hand, and when he sits besides her, he can definitely tell that she _realizes_ that.

(Now there's talk of regrets.)

“I've been meaning to tell you, since I don't think Lucifer or Michael have gotten the chance,” he starts, like everything is normal and neither of them had massive guilt complexes shadowing them at all times. “There was a dragon in Purgatory that is likely the only reason I survived. Think Lucifer said his name was Haruk and that he says hi. Your... pact, I guess, thanks, Kuehner.” 

She's looking at him with a startled gaze. “I'm glad you're okay, Dean.” 

“Getting towards 'okay,'” Dean admits. “But you know what that's like, huh?”

She stares down into her drink. “Ligthart is worse off than I am,” she says. “He agreed to the Commandant. Feels like the choice will forever chase him.”

“Michael's dead, so it won't,” Dean reasons, “but I get it. I didn't agree to the whole monster-rule thing, but I still agreed to let him in, and that's kind of the same thing, really.”

“How did... he get you, Dean? A second time?”

Third, Dean doesn't correct. She had left by the time Dean had explained what happened back at Hitomi. “He just... he broke the rules, again. Kicked down the door and took my choice from me.”

She regards him, quiet. “I understand,” she answers. “That's what he did to the dragons from Purgatory.”

“Sucks, right?” Dean forces a laugh. “It can't ever happen again, Kuehner. We gotta move on.” 

“It's not so easy as that.”

“I know. Trust me. But maybe if I tell you guys that I'll eventually believe it, too.” He looks out across the bar to where the other dragon is keeping secluded. “Do I need to twist Ligthart's arm, too?”

“I would give that time,” she answers, saddened, but there's the faintest of smiles that she turns on him. “Just as you needed your space once before—when he's ready, he'll seek you out.”

Dean can wait; they've given him the same courtesy.


	133. 133

**133**

Tuesday, July 6, 2320

“... Hi.”

Every single person stops what they're doing and looks up to the man standing in the entrance of the penthouse. Silent. Cautious.

It's only when Dean crosses the room in a rush and throws his arms around the man, a desperate, _pleading_ sob on his tongue, voice breaking around the name, “ _Jack_ ,” that the room's atmosphere shifts rapidly. 

Jack reaches up and envelopes Dean in a matching embrace. “Hi, Dean,” he says.

Dean pulls back, looking him over. “Is it really—but _how_?”

“Well,” Jack looks to each of his family gathering in behind Dean, before his gaze settles on Lucifer and he smiles, effused light, “it's my understanding that someone prayed.”

Dean follows his gaze to Lucifer. “Getting real déjà vu here.” 

“When I died my soul stayed with Chuck and Amara. They said I wouldn't be happy in Heaven in its current state—and I wouldn't be able to see my mom. And they wanted to keep me from the Empty, even though it had gone back to sleep.” His attention lingers on Cas before settling attention back to Dean. “When things started to change... I was already getting stronger. And then, before I came here... Chuck said that he was hoping that he would too, so he could send me back. That he wanted to answer a prayer from a long time ago.”

“I... didn't think...” Lucifer trails off. 

“But your powers,” Dean says, gesturing to himself.

Jack shakes his head. “They're yours now, Dean. I've regenerated what I've lost—completely. I told you: I'm glad you have them.”

Dean frowns. “You wrote that in your letter.”

“A letter you should have forgotten you wrote,” Lucifer adds.

Jack smiles. “I remember everything.”

“Did God give any parting words of advice?” Michael asks, while Sam and Cas are going in for hugs. 

“Um,” Jack says, “it sort of amounted to 'go team, go, you're doing a great job.' Amara... Amara said that Chuck had been writing, but he wasn't getting anywhere.”

“Man, as long as he's drafting _another world_ and not screwing with this one. I _like_ this world.” And that feels strange for him to even say since half a year ago he was _hoping_ Chuck would rehash the planet. 

“I certainly like what you've done with it,” Jack agrees. 

“But wait, if you're regenerated completely, shouldn't I be?”

“How do you think your prayer was fueled?”

“... What?”

“You used it without realizing it. Used _a lot_ of it. God was able to shape it for resurrecting Lucifer and expelling Michael.”

Dean sways. Lucifer puts out a hand to steady him. 

“It's why you had to stay in the past,” Cas reasons, understanding. “Without your power, Dean wouldn't have been able to make that push.”

Jack nods in agreement. “Exactly.” 

“I...” Dean tries. “I need to sit down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Jack.


	134. 134

**134**

Thursday, July 15, 2320

“Where are we?” Dean asks. 

“Victoria Falls, border of Zambia and Zimbabwe. Michael kept the natural beauty of this world in tact. The parts of our Father's creation that were truly Paradise.”

“I've never been somewhere like this,” Dean mumbles, his voice swallowed by the rushing sound of water, surrounding them on all sides and coasting over the edge. He drops down to sit besides Lucifer on the jagged rock and stares out at what might as well be a fissure in the planet itself. He can't _see_ the bottom of the long stretch of waterfalls and he has a lot of doubt that there's any at all, a path to the center of the world. 

“There are thousands of pockets tucked away in this world,” Lucifer says, “gems that even my Father would scoff at and not see them for what they are.” He smirks at Dean. “This in particular.” He gestures around him. “Evidently named the Devil's Pool. You know my name gets the butt end of a lot of things, but I'm alright with this one. Five-hundred million liters of water daring to push anyone over a hundred-meter drop? That's perfection.” 

“This _would_ be what you find fascinating,” Dean concludes, but he can't exactly blame Lucifer. The sight calls out to Dean's adrenaline without forcing him in a life or death fight; they have _control_ over this and Dean can't articulate how much that means to him. “Flying doesn't hurt anymore?” Dean asks, tearing his gaze away from the expanse to look at Lucifer in concern. “I know what he did to your wing again, I was kind of _there_.” It's been awhile, but... 

“I think with the bindings gone, my ability to self-heal isn't as strained,” Lucifer responds. He glances over his right shoulder, thoughtful. “I think it may always be a weak spot... However, flight alone is fine.”

Lucifer has both spiritual and physical scars. His wing, his palm. Dean doesn't think archangels are supposed to carry lasting damage, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he asks something that's been on his mind for some time, “Hey... did you really lose track of when this power got passed the point of no return?”

Lucifer side-eyes him, dismayed. “Of course I didn't.”

Dean snorts. He leans forward. Water spits up at his hands. He turns his palms towards it. “So when did it?”

“March 14th.”

Dean thinks on that. He's not the best with dates, but some things stuck out to him. “Wasn't that around when we were grave-digging? When you forgave me for killing you?”

“I _did_ say it was complicated.”

“You got that right, Lucifer!” Dean says, elbowing Lucifer in the side and then taking a chance and leaning against him. Lucifer doesn't shake him off, and Dean settles. This whole... physical contact with another being is new to him. 

Dean feels Lucifer shrug. “It was already... getting to be too much around then.”

Dean scoffs. “What, me or the power?”

Lucifer grins. “Both,” he admits. “But I'd made my decision, and it just... crested over the edge. Point of no return,” he echoes. 

Dean still contemplates that it would have been better if Lucifer took it, but then Dean wouldn't have survived against Apocalypse Michael. _No one_ would have survived against him. Dean may never get complete control over this song, but there should be something said for not bringing the world to its knees a second time, right? 

He pushes the thoughts aside. It's reassurance enough that Lucifer didn't just drop the ball on Dean the Timebomb. That he kept an eye on it in the same way he did the planet.

Lucifer's scarred hand finds Dean's right, threading their fingers together, and Dean's heart thrums at such a simple touch, and how screwed up is he that he _needs_ this? Needs some link to skin for the security of his mind? 

It's not, he tells himself. It's not because they're the same and Dean's not the only one that needs—wants—this. 

It's nice. It's _good_. Dean's allowed to want this. 

“They're really gone then?” he asks. “Your bindings?”

“Yes,” Lucifer breathes out, relieved. He spreads his legs and dangles them into the water, like the very act connects him with something that's taken his namesake. “The rallying caused by the supernatural world when they fought back seems to be holding. Even the humans probably believe that some 'higher power' saved them.”

“They saved themselves, too.” 

“Maybe. But will they see it that way? No.” Lucifer shakes his head. “The planet is starting to breathe right again though. I'm sure you can feel it.”

“Yeah. I... I didn't realize how bad it was until it was gone. Like it was some oily skin clinging to me. So I guess I won't have to join the chain gang after all?”

Lucifer laughs. “I suppose not. If we can just keep it at this level, nothing else matters. It won't be healthy, but... it'll be enough.”

Dean frowns at him. “You're not going to push further?”

“No one needs nor wants my Father back in this world. It won't do us any good.”

“He gonna be happy about that?”

“I don't care,” Lucifer declares, and Dean thinks it feels like an oath locking into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Devil's Pool](https://www.zambiatourism.com/destinations/waterfalls/victoria-falls/victoria-falls-devils-pool/)
> 
> May 18th wins the prize for most chapters for a single day. 13 chapters, one day. Eegads.
> 
> Also this is the end of Part V.


End file.
